HBi 


: 


BEN   BLAIR 


BEN,    FORGIVE    ME.       I'VE    HURT    YOU." 

[Pa#e  114.] 


Ben  Blair 

THE  STORY  OF  A  PLAINSMAN 

BY 

Will  Lillibridge 

WITH   FRONTISPIECE  IN   FULL  COLOR 

BY 

Maynard  Dixon 

THIRD  EDITION 


CHICAGO 

A.  C.  McCLURG    &    CO. 
1905 


COPYRIGHT  BY 
A  .  C.  McCniRG  &  Co. 

A.  D.  1905 
Entered  at  Stationers'  Hall,  London 

All  rights  reserved 


Published  October  21,  1905 

Second  Edition,  October  28,  1905 

Third  Edition,  November  29,  1905 


Composition  by  the  University  Press,  Cambridge,  U.  S.  A. 
Presswork  by  R.  R.  Donnelley  &  Sons  Co.,  Chicago.  U.  S.  A. 


To  My  Wife 


M18907 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.    IN  RUDE  BORDER-LAND 1 

II.    DESOLATION 9 

III.    THE  |R  RANCH 23 

IV.    BEN'S  NEW  HOME 37 

V.    THE  EXOTICS 44 

VI.    THE  SOIL  AND  THE  SEED 53 

VII.    THE  SANITY  OF  THE  WILD 66 

VIII.  THE  GLITTER  OF  THE  UNKNOWN       ...  74 

IX.    A  RIFFLE  OF  PRAIRIE 83 

X.    THE  DOMINANT  ANIMAL 94 

XI.    LOVE'S  AVOWAL 106 

XII.    A  DEFERRED  RECKONING 117 

XIII.  A  SHOT  IN  THE  DARK 134 

XIV.  THE  INEXORABLE  TRAIL     .     ...     .     .     .  148 

XV.    IN  THE  GRIP  OF  THE  LAW 164 

XVI.    THE  QUICK  AND  THE  DEAD 185 

XVII.    GLITTER  AND  TINSEL 193 

XVIII.    PAINTER  AND  PICTURE 204 

XIX.    A  VISITOR  FROM  THE  PLAINS 217 

[vii] 


Contents 

CHAPTER  pAGE 

XX.  CLUB  CONFIDENCES 230 

XXI.  LOVE  IN  CONFLICT 242 

XXII.  Two  FRIENDS  HAVE  IT  Our 258 

XXIII.  THE  BACK-FIRE 270 

XXIV.  THE  UPPER  AND  THE  NETHER  MILLSTONES  287 
XXV.  OF  WHAT  AVAIL? 304 

XXVI.  LOVE'S  SURRENDER    .......     ,  318 


BEN  BLAIR 

CHAPTER  I  r: 

IN  RUDE  BORDER-LAND 

EVEN  in  a  community  where  unsavory  reputations 
were  the  rule,  Mick  Kennedy's  saloon  was  of  evil 
repute.  In  a  land  new  and  wild,  his  establish 
ment  was  the  wildest,  partook  most  of  the  unsubdued, 
unevolved  character  of  its  surroundings.  There,  as  irre 
sistibly  as  gravitation  calls  the  falling  apple,  came  from 
afar  and  near  —  mainly  from  afar  —  the  malcontent,  the 
restless,  the  reckless,  seeking  —  instinctively  gregarious 
—  the  crowd,  the  excitement  of  the  green-covered  table, 
the  temporary  oblivion  following  the  gulping  of  fiery 
red  liquor. 

Great  splendid  animals  were  the  men  who  gathered 
there ;  hairy,  powerful,  strong-voiced  from  combat  with 
prairie  wind  and  frontier  distance ;  devoid  of  a  super 
fluous  ounce  of  flesh,  their  trousers,  uniformly  baggy  at 
the  knees,  bearing  mute  testimony  to  the  many  hours 
spent  in  the  saddle  ;  the  bare  unprotected  skin  of  their 
hands  and  faces  speaking  likewise  of  constant  contact 
with  sun  and  storm. 

By  the  broad  glow  of  daylight  the  place  was  anything 
but  inviting.  The  heavy  bar,  made  of  cottonwood,  had 

1  i 


Ben  Blair 

no  more  elegance  than  the  rude  sod  shanty  of  the  pioneer. 
The  worn  round  cloth-topped  tables,  imported  at  ex 
travagant  cost  from  the  East,  were  covered  with  splashes 
of  grease  and  liquor;  and  the  few  fly-marked  pictures 
on  the  walls  were  coarsely  suggestive.  Scattered  among 
them  haphazard,  in  one  instance  through  a  lithographic 
print,  were  .round  holes  as  large  as  a  spike-head,  through 
which,  by  closely  applying  the  eye,  one  could  view  the 
world  without.  When  the  place  was  new,  similar  open 
ings  had  been  carefully  refilled  with  a  whittled  stick  of 
wood,  but  the  practice  had  been  discontinued ;  it  was 
too  much  trouble,  and  also  useless  from  the  frequency 
with  which  new  holes  were  made.  Besides,  although  ac 
cepted  with  unconcern  by  habitues  of  the  place,  they  were 
a  source  of  never-ending  interest  to  the  "  tenderfeet " 
who  occasionally  appeared  from  nowhere  and  disappeared 
whence  they  had  come. 

But  at  night  all  was  different.  Encircling  the  room 
with  gleaming  points  of  light  were  a  multitude  of  blazing 
candles,  home-made  from  tallow  of  prairie  cattle.  The 
irradiance,  almost  as  strong  as  daylight,  but  radically 
different,  softened  all  surrounding  objects.  The  prairie 
dust,  penetrating  with  the  wind,  spread  itself  everywhere. 
The  reflection  from  cheap  glassware,  carefully  polished, 
made  it  appear  of  costly  make ;  the  sawdust  of  the  floor 
seemed  a  downy  covering ;  the  crude  heavy  chairs,  an 
imitation  of  the  artistic  furniture  of  our  fathers.  Even 
the  face  of  bartender  Mick,  with  its  stiff  unshaven  red 
beard  and  its  single  eye,  —  merciless  as  an  electric  head 
light, —  its  broad  flaming  scar  leading  down  from  the 

[2] 


In  Rude  Border-land 

blank  socket  of  its  mate,  became  less  repulsive  under  the 
softened  light. 

With  the  coming  of  Fall  frosts,  the  premonition  of 
Winter,  the  frequenters  of  the  place  gathered  earlier,  re 
mained  later,  emptied  more  of  the  showily  labelled  bottles 
behind  the  bar,  and  augmented  when  possible  their  well- 
established  reputation  for  recklessness.  About  the  soiled 
tables  the  fringe  of  bleared  faces  and  keen  hawk-like  eyes 
was  more  closely  drawn.  The  dull  rattle  of  poker-chips 
lasted  longer,  frequently  far  into  the  night,  and  even  after 
the  tardy  light  of  morning  had  come  to  the  rescue  of  the 
sputtering  stumps  in  the  candlesticks. 

On  such  a  morning,  early  in  November,  daylight 
broadened  upon  a  characteristic  scene.  Only  one  table 
was  in  use,  and  around  it  sat  four  men.  One  by  one  the 
other  players  had  cashed  out  and  left  the  game.  One  of 
them  was  snoring  in  a  corner,  his  head  resting  upon  the 
sawdust.  Another  leaned  heavily  upon  the  bar,  a  half- 
drained  glass  before  him.  Even  the  four  at  the  table 
were  not  as  upon  the  night  before.  The  hands  which 
held  the  greasy  cards  and  toyed  with  the  stacks  of  chips 
were  steady,  but  the  heads  controlling  them  wavered 
uncertainly ;  and  the  hawk  eyes  were  bloodshot. 

A  man  with  a  full  beard,  roughly  trimmed  into  the 
travesty  of  a  Vandyke,  was  dealing.  He  tossed  out  the 
cards,  carefully  inclining  their  faces  downward,  and  re 
turned  the  remainder  of  the  pack  softly  to  the  table. 

"  Pass,  damn  it ! "  growled  the  man  at  the  left. 

"  Pass,"  came  from  the  next  man. 

"Pass,"  echoed  the  last  of  the  quartette. 


Ben  Blair 

Five  blue  chips  dropped  in  a  row  upon  the  cloth. 

"  I  open  it." 

The  dealer  took  up  the  pack  lovingly. 

"Cards?" 

The  man  at  the  left,  tall,  gaunt,  ill-kempt,  flicked  the 
pasteboards  in  his  hand  to  the  floor  and  ground  them 
beneath  his  heavy  boots. 

"  Give  me  five." 

The  point  of  the  Vandyke  beard  was  aimed  straight  past 
the  speaker. 

"  Cards  ?  "  repeated  the  dealer. 

"Five!     Can't  you  hear?" 

The  man  braced  against  the  bar  looked  around  with 
interest.  In  the  mask  of  Mick  Kennedy  the  single  eye 
closed  almost  imperceptibly.  Slowly  the  face  of  the 
dealer  turned. 

"I  can  hear  you  pretty  well  when  you  cash  into  the 
game.  You  already  owe  me  forty  blues,  Blair." 

The  long  figure  stiffened,  the  face  went  pale. 

"You  —  mean  —  you  —  "  the  tongue  was  very  thick. 
"You  cut  me  out?" 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence ;  then  once  more  the 
beard  pointed  to  the  player  next  beyond. 

"  Cards  ?  "  for  the  third  time. 

Five  chips  ranged  in  a  row  beside  their  predecessors. 

"Three." 

A  hand,  almost  the  hand  of  a  gentleman,  went  in 
stinctively  to  the  gaunt  throat  of  the  ignored  gambler 
and  jerked  at  the  close  flannel  shirt;  then  without  a 
word  the  owner  got  unsteadily  to  his  feet  and  followed 


In  Rude  Border-land 

an  irregular  trail  toward  the  interested  spectator  at  the 
bar. 

"  Have  a  drink  with  me,  pard,"  said  the  gambler,  as  he 
regarded  the  immovable  Mick.  "  Two  whiskeys,  there  !" 

Kennedy  did  not  stir,  and  for  five  seconds  Blair  blinked 
his  dulled  eyes  in  wordless  surprise;  then  his  fist  came 
down  upon  the  cotton  wood  board  with  a  mighty  crash. 

"  Wake  up  there,  Mick  ! "  he  roared.  "  I  'm  speaking 
to  you !  A  couple  of  '  ryes '  for  the  gentleman  here  and 
myself." 

Another  pause,  momentary  but  effective. 

"  I  heard  you."  The  barkeeper  spoke  quietly  but  with 
out  the  slightest  change  of  expression,  even  of  the  eye. 
"  I  heard  you,  but  I  'm  not  dealing  out  drinks  to  dead- 
beats.  Pay  up,  and  I  "11  be  glad  to  serve  you." 

Swift  as  thought  Blair's  hand  went  to  his  hip,  and  the 
rattle  of  poker-chips  sympathetically  ceased.  A  second, 
and  a  big  revolver  was  trained  fair  at  the  dispenser  of 
liquors. 

"  Curse  you,  Mick  Kennedy ! "  muttered  a  choking 
voice,  "  when  I  order  drinks  I  want  drinks.  Dig  up 
there,  and  be  lively !  " 

The  man  by  the  speaker's  side,  surprised  out  of  his 
intoxication,  edged  away  to  a  discreet  distance ;  but  even 
yet  the  Irishman  made  no  move.  Only  the  single  head 
light  shifted  in  its  socket  until  it  looked  unblinkingly 
into  the  blazing  eyes  of  the  gambler. 

"Tom  Blair,"  commanded  an  even  voice,  "Tom  Blair, 
you  white-livered  bully,  put  up  that  gun  ! " 

Slowly,  very  slowly,  the  speaker  turned, — all  but  the 

[6] 


Ben  Blair 

terrible  Cyclopean  eye,  —  and  moved  forward  until  his 
body  leaned  upon  the  bar,  his  face  protruding  over  it. 

"  Put  up  that  gun,  I  tell  you  !  "  A  smile  almost  fiend 
ish  broke  over  the  furrows  of  the  rugged  face.  "  You 
would  n't  dast  shoot,  unless  perhaps  it  was  a  woman,  you 
coward ! " 

For  a  fraction  of  a  minute  there  was  silence,  while  over 
the  visage  of  the  challenged  there  flashed,  faded,  recurred 
the  expression  we  pay  good  dollars  to  watch  playing 
upon  the  features  of  an  accomplished  actor ;  then  the  yel 
low  streak  beneath  the  bravado  showed,  and  the  menacing 
hand  dropped  to  the  holster  at  the  hip.  Once  again 
Kennedy,  who  seldom  made  a  mistake,  had  sized  his  man 
correctly. 

"What  do  I  owe  you  altogether,  Mick?"  asked  a 
changed  and  subdued  voice.  "Make  it  as  easy  as  you 
can." 

Kennedy  relaxed  into  his  lounging  position. 

"Thirty-five  dollars.  We'll  call  it  thirty.  You've 
been  setting  them  up  to  everybody  here  for  a  week  on 
your  face." 

"Can't  you  give  me  just  a  little  more  credit,  Mick?" 
An  expression  meant  to  be  a  smile  formed  upon  the  hag 
gard  face.  "Just  for  old  time's  sake?  You  know  I've 
always  been  a  good  customer  of  yours,  Kennedy." 

"  Not  a  cent." 

"  But  I-'ve  got  to  have  liquor  !  "  One  hand,  ill-kept, 
but  long  of  fingers  and  refined  of  shape,  steadied  the 
speaker.  "  I  can't  get  along  without  it !  " 

"  Sell  something,  then,  and  pay  up." 

[6] 


In  Rude  Border-land 

The  man  thought  a  moment  and  shook  his  head. 

"  I  have  n't  anything  to  sell ;  you  know  that.  It 's  the 
wrong  time  of  the  year."  He  paused,  and  the  travesty  of 
a  «mile  reappeared.  "  Next  Winter  —  " 

"  You  've  got  a  horse  outside." 

For  an  instant  Blair's  gaunt  face  darkened  at  the  in 
sult  ;  he  grew  almost  dignified ;  but  the  drink  curse  had 
too  strong  a  grip  upon  him  and  the  odor  of  whiskey  was 
in  the  air. 

"  Yes,  I  've  a  good  horse,"  he  said  slowly.  "  What  11 
you  give  for  him?" 

"  Seventy  dollars." 

"  He 's  a  good  horse,  worth  a  hundred." 

"  I  'm  glad  of  that,  but  I  'm  not  dealing  in  horses.  I 
make  the  offer  just  to  oblige  you.  Besides,  as  you  said, 
it 's  an  off  season." 

"  You  won't  give  me  more  ?  " 

"No." 

Blair  looked  impotently  about  the  room,  but  his  former 
companions  had  returned  to  their  game.  Filling  in  the 
silence,  the  dull  clatter  of  chips  mingled  with  the  drunken 
snores  of  the  man  on  the  floor. 

"  Very  well,  give  me  fortys"  he  said  at  last. 

"  You  accept,  do  you  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"All  right." 

Blair  waited  a  moment.  "  Are  n't  you  going  to  give 
me  what's  coming?"  he  asked. 

Slowly  the  single  eye  fixed  him  as  before. 

"  I  did  n't  know  you  had  anything  coming." 

m 


Ben  Blair 

"  Why,  you  just  said  forty  dollars ! " 

There  was  no  relenting  in  Kennedy's  face. 

"  You  owe  that  gentleman  over  there  at  the  table  for 
forty  blues.  I'll  settle  with  him."" 

Instinctively,  as  before,  Blair's  thin  hand  went  to  his 
throat,  clutching  at  the  coarse  flannel.  He  saw  he  was 
beaten. 

"  Well,  give  me  a  drink,  anyway  !  " 

Silently  Mick  took  a  big  flask  from  the  shelf  and  set  it 
with  a  decanter  upon  the  bar.  Filling  the  glass,  Blair 
drained  it  at  a  gulp,  refilled  and  drained  it  —  and  then 
again. 

"  A  little  drop  to  take  along  with  me,"  he  whined. 

Kennedy  selected  a  pint  bottle,  filled  it  from  the  big 
flask,  and  silently  proffered  it  over  the  board. 

Blair  took  the  extended  favor,  glanced  once  more 
about  the  room,  and  stumbled  toward  the  exit.  Mick 
busied  himself  wiping  the  soiled  bar  with  a  towel,  if  pos 
sible,  even  more  filthy.  At  the  threshold,  his  hand  upon 
the  knob,  Blair  paused,  stiffened,  grew  livid  in  the  face. 

"  May  Satan  blister  your  scoundrel  souls,  all  of  you ! " 
he  cursed. 

Not  a  man  within  sound  of  his  voice  gave  sign  that  he 
had  heard,  as  the  opened  door  returned  to  its  casing  with 
a  crash. 


[8] 


CHAPTER  II 

DESOLATION 

TEN  miles  out  on  the  prairies,  —  not  lands  plane 
as  a  table,  as  they  are  usually  pictured,  but  roll 
ing  like  the  sea  with  waves  of  tremendous  ampli 
tude —  stood  a  rough  shack,  called  by  courtesy  a  house. 
Like  many  a  more  pretentious  domicile,  it  was  of  composite 
construction,  although  consisting  of  but  one  room.  At 
the  base  was  the  native  prairie  sod,  piled  tier  upon  tier. 
Above  this  the  superstructure,  like  the  bar  of  Mick 
Kennedy's  resort,  was  of  warping  cottonwood.  Built  out 
from  this  single  room  and  forming  a  part  of  it  was  what 
the  designer  had  called  a  woodshed ;  but  as  no  tree  the 
size  of  a  man's  wrist  was  within  ten  miles,  or  a  railroad 
within  fifty,  the  term  was  manifestly  a  misnomer.  Wood 
in  any  form  it  had  never  contained ;  instead,  it  was  filled 
with  that  providential  fuel  of  the  frontiersman,  found 
superabundantly  upon  the  ranges,  —  buffalo  chips. 

From  the  main  room  there  was  another  and  much 
smaller  opening  into  the  sod  foundation,  and  below  it, 
—  a  dog-kennel.  Slightly  apart  from  the  shack  stood 
a  twin  structure  even  less  assuming,  its  walls  and  roof 
being  wholly  built  of  sod.  It  was  likewise  without 
partition,  and  was  used  as  a  barn.  Hard  by  was  a  corral 

[9] 


Ben  Blair 

covering  perhaps  two  acres,  enclosed  with  a  barbed- 
wire  fence.  These  three  excrescences  upon  the  face  of 
nature  comprised  the  "improvements'"  of  the  "Big  B 
Ranch." 

Within  the  house  the  furnishings  accorded  with  their 
surroundings.  Two  folding  bunks,  similar  in  conception 
to  the  upper  berths  of  a  Pullman  car,  were  built  end  to 
end  against  the  wall ;  when  they  were  raised  to  give  room, 
four  supports  dangled  beneath  like  paralyzed  arms.  A 
home-made  table,  suggesting  those  scattered  about  country 
picnic  grounds,  a  few  cheap  chairs,  a  row  of  chests  and 
cupboards  variously  remodelled  from  a  common  foundation 
of  dry-goods  boxes,  and  a  stove,  ingeniously  evolved  out  of 
the  cylinder  and  head  of  a  portable  engine,  comprised  the 
furniture. 

The  morning  sunlight  which  dimmed  the  candles  of 
Mick  Kennedy's  saloon  drifted  through  the  single  high-set 
window  of  the  Big  B  Ranch-house,  revealing  there  a  very 
different  scene.  From  beneath  the  quilts  in  one  of  the 
folding  bunks  appeared  the  faces  of  a  woman  and  a  little 
boy.  At  the  opening  of  the  dog-kennel  the  head  of  a 
mottled  yellow-and-white  mongrel  dog  projected  into  the 
room,  the  sensitive  muzzle  pointing  directly  at  the  occu 
pied  bunk.  The  eyes  of  woman,  child,  and  beast  were 
open  and  moved  restlessly  about. 

"Mamma,"  and  the  small  boy  wriggled  beneath  the 
clothes,  "Mamma,  I'm  hungry."" 

The  white  face  of  the  woman  turned  away,  more  pallid 
than  before.  An  unfamiliar  observer  would  have  been  at 
a  loss  to  guess  the  age  of  the  owner.  In  that  haggard, 

[10] 


Desolation 

non-committal  countenance  there  was  nothing  to  indicate 
whether  she  was  twenty-five  or  fo_ 

"  It  is  early  yet,  son.     Go  to  sleep. 

The  boy  closed  his  eyes  dutifully,  and  for  perhaps  five 
minutes  there  was  silence  ;  then  the  blue  orbs  opened  wider 
than  before. 

"  Mamma,  I  can't  go  to  sleep.     I  'm  hungry ! " 

"  Never  mind,  Benjamin.  The  horses,  the  rabbits,  the 
birds,  —  all  get  hungry  sometimes."  A  hacking  cough 
interrupted  her  words.  "  Snuggle  close  up  to  me,  little 
son,  and  keep  warm.'" 

"  But,  mamma,  I  want  something  to  eat.  Won't  you 
get  it  for  me  ?  " 

"  I  can't,  son." 

He  waited  a  moment.  "  Won't  you  let  me  help  myself, 
then,  mamma  ?  " 

The  eyes  of  the  mother  moistened. 

"Mamma,"  the  child  repeated,  gently  shaking  his 
mother's  shoulder,  "  won't  you  let  me  help  myself  ? " 

"There's  nothing  for  you  to  eat,  sonny,  nothing  at 
all." 

The  blue  child-eyes  widened;  the  serious  little  face 
puckered. 

"  Why  ain't  there  anything  to  eat,  mamma  ?  " 

"  Because  there  is  n't,  bubby." 

The  reasoning  was  conclusive,  and  the  child  accepted  it 
without  further  parley  ;  but  soon  another  interrogation 
took  form  in  his  active  brain. 

"  It 's  cold,  mamma,"  he  announced.  "  Are  n't  you  going 
to  build  a  fire?" 

[11] 


Ben  Blair 

Again  the  mother  coughed,  and  a  flush  of  red  appeared 
upon  her  cheeks. 

"  No,"  she  answered  with  a  sigh. 

"  Why  not,  mamma  ?  " 

There  was  not  the  slightest  trace  of  irritation  in  the 
answering  voice,  although  it  was  clearly  an  effort  to  speak. 

"  I  can't  get  up  this  morning,  little  one." 

Mysteries  were  multiplying,  but  the  small  Benjamin  was 
equal  to  the  occasion.  With  a  spring  he  was  out  of  bed, 
and  in  another  moment  was  stepping  gingerly  upon  the 
cold  bare  floor. 

"I'm  going  to  build  a  fire  for  you,  mamma,"  he 
announced. 

The  homely  mongrel  whined  a  welcome  to  the  little 
lad's  appearance,  and  with  his  tail  beat  a  friendly  tattoo 
upon  the  kennel  floor;  but  the  woman  spoke  no  word. 
With  impassive  face  she  watched  the  shivering  little  figure 
as  it  hurried  into  its  clothes,  and  then,  with  celerity  born 
of  experience,  went  about  the  making  of  a  fire.  Suddenly 
a  hitherto  unthought-of  possibility  flashed  into  the  boy's 
mind,  and  leaving  his  work  he  came  back  to  the  bunk. 

"  Are  you  sick,  mamma  ?  "  he  asked. 

Instantly  the  woman's  face  softened. 

"  Yes,  laddie,"  she  answered  gently. 

Carefully  as  a  nurse,  the  small  protector  replaced  the 
cover  at  his  mother's  back,  where  his  exit  had  left  a  gap ; 
then  returned  to  his  work. 

"  You  must  have  it  warm  here,"  he  said. 

Not  until  the  fire  in  the  old  cylinder  makeshift  was 
burning  merrily  did  he  return  to  his  patient ;  then,  stand- 

[12] 


Desolation 

ing  straight  before  her,  he  looked  down  with  an  air  of 
childish  dignity  that  would  have  been  comical  had  it  been 
less  pathetic. 

"Are  you  very  sick,  mamma?'"  he  said  at  last,  hesi 
tatingly. 

"  I  am  dying,  little  son."  She  spoke  calmly  and  imper 
sonally,  without  even  a  quickening  of  the  breath.  The 
thin  hand,  lying  on  the  tattered  cover,  did  not  stir. 

"Mamma!"  the  old- man  face  of  the  boy  tightened,  as, 
bending  over  the  bed,  he  pressed  his  warm  cheek  against 
hers,  now  growing  cold  and  white. 

At  the  mouth  of  the  kennel  two  bright  eyes  were  watch 
ing  curiously.  Their  owner  wriggled  the  tip  of  his  muzzle 
inquiringly,  but  the  action  brought  no  response.  Then 
the  muzzle  went  into  the  air,  and  a  whine,  long-drawn  and 
insistent,  broke  the  silence. 

The  boy  rose.  There  was  not  a  trace  of  moisture  in  his 
eyes,  but  the  uncannily  aged  face  seemed  older  than  be 
fore.  He  went  over  to  a  peg  where  his  clothes  were  hang 
ing  and  took  down  the  frayed  garment  that  answered  as 
an  overcoat.  From  the  bunk  there  came  another  cough, 
quickly  muffled ;  but  he  did  not  turn.  Cap  followed  coat, 
mittens  cap ;  then,  suddenly  remembering,  he  turned  to 
the  stove  and  scattered  fresh  chips  upon  the  glowing 
embers. 

"  Good-bye,  mamma,"  said  the  boy. 

The  mother  had  been  watching  him,  although  she  gave 
no  sign.  "  Where  are  you  going,  sonny  ?  "  she  asked. 

"To  town,  mamma.  Someone  ought  to  know  you're 
sick." 

[13] 


Ben  Blair 

There  was  a  moment's  pause,  wherein  the  mongrel 
whined  impatiently. 

"  Are  n't  you  going  to  kiss  me  first,  Benjamin  ?  " 

The  little  lad  retraced  his  steps,  until,  bending  over,  his 
lips  touched  those  of  his  mother.  As  he  did  so,  the  hand 
which  had  lain  upon  the  coverlet  shifted  to  his  arm 
detainingly. 

"  How  were  you  thinking  of  going,  son  ?  " 

A  look  of  surprise  crept  into  the  boy's  blue  eyes.  A 
question  like  this,  with  its  obvious  answer,  was  unusual 
from  his  matter-of-fact  mother.  He  glanced  at  her 
gravely. 

"  I  'm  going  afoot,  mamma." 

"It's  ten  miles  to  town,  Benjamin." 

"  But  you  and  I  walked  it  once  together.  Don't  you 
remember  ?  " 

An  expression  the  lad  did  not  understand  flashed  over 
the  white  face  of  Jennie  Blair.  Well  she  remembered  that 
other  occasion,  one  of  many  like  the  present,  when  she  and 
the  little  lad  had  gone  in  company  to  the  settlement  of 
which  Mick  Kennedy's  place  was  a  part,  in  search  of  some 
one  whom  after  ten  hours'  delay  they  had  succeeded  in 
bringing  home,  —  the  remnant  and  vestige  of  what  was 
once  a  man. 

"  Yes,  I  know  we  did,  Bennie." 

The  boy  waited  a  moment  longer,  then  straightened 
himself. 

"  I  think  I  'd  better  be  starting  now." 

But  instead  of  loosening  its  hold,  the  hand  upon  the 
boy's  shoulder  tightened.  The  eyes  of  the  two  met. 

[14] 


Desolation 

"  You  're  not  going,  sonny.  I  'm  glad  you  thought  of 
it,  but  I  can't  let  you  go." 

Again  there  was  silence  for  so  long  that  the  waiting 
dog,  impatient  of  the  delay,  whined  in  soft  protest. 

"  Why  not,  mamma  ?  " 

"  Because,  Benjamin,  it's  too  late  now.  Besides,  there 
wouldn't  be  a  person  there  who  would  come  out  to  help 
me." 

The  boy's  look  of  perplexity  returned. 

"Not  if  they  knew  you  were  very  sick,  mamma?" 

"  Not  if  they  knew  I  was  dying,  my  son." 

The  boy  took  off  hat,  mittens,  and  coat,  and  returned 
them  to  their  places.  Never  in  his  short  life  had  he 
questioned  a  statement  of  his  mother's,  and  such  heresy 
did  not  occur  to  him  now.  Coming  back  to  the  bunk,  he 
laid  his  cheek  caressingly  beside  hers. 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you,  mamma?'*  he 
whispered. 

"  Nothing  but  what  you  are  doing  now,  laddie." 

Tired  of  standing,  the  mongrel  dropped  within  his 
tracks  flat  upon  his  belly,  and,  his  head  resting  upon  his 
fore-paws,  lay  watching  intently. 

When  the  door  of  Mick  Kennedy's  saloon  closed  with  an 
emphasis  that  shook  the  very  walls,  it  shut  out  a  being 
more  ferocious,  more  evil,  than  any  beast  of  the  jungle. 
For  the  time,  Blair's  alcohol-saturated  brain  evolved  but 
one  chain  of  thought,  was  capable  of  but  one  emotion  — 
hate.  Every  object  in  the  universe,  from  its  Creator  to 
himself,  fell  under  the  ban.  The  language  of  hate  is 

[15] 


Ben  Blair 

curses ;  and  as  he  moved  out  over  the  prairie  there  dripped 
from  his  lips  continuously,  monotonously,  a  trickling, 
blighting  stream  of  malediction.  Swaying,  stumbling, 
unconscious  of  his  physical  motions,  instinct  kept  him 
upon  the  trail ;  a  Providence,  sometimes  kindest  to  those 
least  worthy,  preserved  him  from  injury. 

Half  way  out  he  met  a  solitary  Indian  astride  a  faded- 
looking  mustang,  and  the  current  of  his  wrath  was  tem 
porarily  diverted  by  a  surly  "  How  ! "  Even  this  measure 
of  friendliness  was  regretted  when  the  big  revolver  came  out 
of  the  rancher's  holster  like  a  flash,  and,  head  low  on  the 
neck  of  the  mustang,  heels  in  the  little  beast's  ribs,  the 
aborigine  retreated  with  a  yell,  amid  a  shower  of  ill-aimed 
bullets.  Long  after  the  figure  on  the  pony  had  passed 
out  of  range,  Blair  stood  pulling  at  the  trigger  of  the 
empty  repeater  and  cursing  louder  than  before  because  it 
would  not  "  pop." 

Two  hours  later,  when  it  was  past  noon,  an  uncertain 
hand  lifted  the  wooden  latch  of  the  Big  B  Ranch-house  door, 
and,  heralded  by  an  inrush  of  cold  outside  air,  Tom  Blair, 
master  and  dictator,  entered  his  domain.  The  passage  of 
time,  the  physical  exercise,  and  the  prairie  air,  had  some 
what  cleared  his  brain.  Just  within  the  room,  he  paused 
and  looked  about  him  with  surprise.  With  premonition 
of  impending  trouble,  the  mongrel  bristled  the  yellow  hair 
of  his  neck,  and,  retreating  to  the  mouth  of  his  kennel, 
stood  guard ;  but  otherwise  the  scene  was  to  a  detail  as  it 
had  been  in  the  morning.  The  woman  lay  passive  within 
the  bunk.  The  child  by  her  side,  holding  her  hand,  did 
not  turn.  The  very  atmosphere  of  the  place  tingled  with 

[  16  ] 


Desolation 

an  ominous  quiet,  —  a  silence  such  as  one  who  has  lived 
through  a  cyclone  connects  instinctively  with  a  whirling 
oncoming  black  funnel. 

The  new-comer  was  first  to  make  a  move.  Walking 
over  to  the  centre  of  the  room,  he  stopped  and  looked 
upon  his  subjects. 

"  Well,  of  all  the  infernally  lazy  people  I  ever  saw ! "  he 
commented,  "  you  beat  them,  Jennie  !  Get  up  and  cook 
something  to  eat ;  it 's  way  after  noon,  and  I  'm  hungry." 

The  woman  said  nothing,  but  the  boy  slid  to  his  feet, 
facing  the  intruder. 

"Mamma's  sick  and  can't  get  up,"  he  explained  as  im 
personally  as  to  a  stranger.  "Besides,  there  isn't  any 
thing  to  cook.  She  said  so." 

The  man's  brow  contracted  into  a  frown. 

"  Speak  when  you  're  spoken  to,  young  upstart ! "  he 
snapped.  "  Out  with  you,  Jennie  !  I  don't  want  to  be 
monkeyed  with  to-day  ! " 

He  hung  up  his  coat  and  cap,  and  loosened  his  belt  a 
hole ;  but  no  one  else  in  the  room  moved. 

"Didn't  you  hear  me?"  he  asked,  looking  warningly 
toward  the  bunk. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied. 

Autocrat  under  his  own  roof,  the  man  paused  in  sur 
prise.  Never  before  had  a  command  here  been  disobeyed. 
He  could  scarcely  believe  his  own  senses. 

"  You  know  what  to  do,  then,"  he  said  sharply. 

For  the  first  time  a  touch  of  color  came  into  the  wo 
man's  cheeks,  and  catching  the  man's  eyes  she  looked  into 
them  unfalteringly. 

[  17  ] 


Ben  Blair 

"  Since  when  did  I  become  your  slave,  Tom  Blair  ?  "  she 
asked  slowly. 

The  words  were  a  challenge,  the  tone  was  that  of  some 
wild  thing,  wounded,  cornered,  staring  death  in  the  face, 
but  defiant  to  the  end.  "  Since  when  did  you  become  my 
owner,  body  and  soul  ?  " 

Any  sportsman,  any  being  with  a  fragment  of  admira 
tion  for  even  animal  courage,  would  have  held  aloof  then. 
It  remained  for  this  man,  bred  amid  high  civilization, 
who  had  spent  years  within  college  halls,  to  strike  the 
prostrate.  As  in  the  frontier  saloon,  so  now  his  hand 
went  involuntarily  to  his  throat,  clutched  at  the  binding 
collar  until  the  button  flew ;  then,  as  before,  his  face 
went  white. 

"  Since  when  ! "  he  blazed,  "  since  when !  I  admire 
your  nerve  to  ask  that  question  of  me !  Since  six 
years  ago,  when  you  first  began  living  with  me.  Since 
the  day  when  you  and  the  boy,  —  and  not  a  preacher 
within  a  hundred  miles  — "  Words,  a  flood  of  words, 
were  upon  his  lips ;  but  suddenly  he  stopped.  Despite 
the  alcohol  still  in  his  brain,  despite  the  effort  he 
made  to  continue,  the  gaze  of  the  woman  compelled 
silence. 

"You  dare  recall  that  memory,  Tom  Blair?""  The 
words  came  more  slowly  than  before,  and  with  an  intensity 
that  burned  them  into  the  hearer's  memory.  "  You  dare, 
knowing  what  I  gave  up  for  your  sake ! "  The  eyes 
blazed  afresh,  the  dark  head  was  raised  on  the  pillows. 
"  You  know  that  my  son  stands  listening,  and  yet  you  dare 
throw  my  coming  to  you  in  my  face  ?  n 

[18] 


Desolation 

White  to  the  lips  went  the  scarred  visage  of  the  man, 
but  the  madness  was  upon  him. 

"  I  dare  ? "  To  his  own  ears  the  voice  sounded  un 
natural.  "  I  dare  ?  To  be  sure  I  dare  !  You  came  to 
me  of  your  own  free-will.  You  were  not  a  child ! "  His 
voice  rose  and  the  flush  returned  to  his  face.  "You 
knew  the  price  and  accepted  it  deliberately,  —  deliber 
ately,  I  say ! " 

Without  a  sound,  the  figure  in  the  rough  bunk  quiv 
ered  and  stiffened;  the  hand  upon  the  coverlet  was 
clenched  until  the  nails  grew  white,  then  it  relaxed. 
Slowly,  very  slowly,  the  eyelids  closed  as  though  in  sleep. 

Impassive  but  intent  listener,  an  instinct  now  sent  the 
boy  Benjamin  back  to  his  post. 

"  Mamma,"  he  said  gently.     "  Mamma ! " 

There  was  no  answer,  nor  even  a  responsive  pressure  of 
the  hand. 

"  Mamma ! "  he  repeated  more  loudly.  "  Mamma ! 
Mamma ! " 

Still  no  answer,  only  the  limp  passivity.  Then  sud 
denly,  although  never  before  in  his  short  life  had  the  little 
lad  looked  upon  death,  he  recognized  it  now.  His  mamma, 
his  playmate,  his  teacher,  was  like  this  ;  she  would  not 
speak  to  him,  would  not  answer  him  ;  she  would  never 
speak  to  him  or  smile  upon  him  again  !  Like  a  thunder 
clap  came  the  realization  of  this.  Then  another  thought 
swiftly  followed.  This  man, —  one  who  had  said  things  that 
hurt  her,  that  brought  the  red  spots  to  her  cheeks,  —  this 
man  was  to  blame.  Not  in  the  least  did  he  understand  the 
meaning  of  what  he  had  just  heard.  No  human  being  had 

[  19] 


Ben  Blair 

suggested  to  him  that  Blair  was  the  cause  of  his  mother's 
death ;  but  as  surely  as  he  would  remember  their  words  as 
long  as  he  lived,  so  surely  did  he  recognize  the  man's 
guilt.  Suddenly,  as  powder  responds  to  the  spark,  there 
surged  through  his  tiny  body  a  terrible  animal  hate  for 
this  man,  and,  scarcely  realizing  the  action,  he  rushed  at 
him. 

"  She 's  dead  and  you  killed  her ! "  he  screamed. 
"Mamma's  dead,  dead!"  and  the  little  doubled  fists 
struck  at  the  man's  legs  again  and  again. 

Oblivious  to  the  onslaught,  Tom  Blair  strode  over  to 
the  bunk. 

"Jennie,"  he  said,  not  unkindly,  "Jennie,  what's  the 
matter?" 

Again  there  was  no  response,  and  a  shade  of  awe  crept 
into  the  man's  voice. 

"  Jennie  !  Jennie !  Answer  me  ! "  A  hand  fell  upon 
the  woman's  shoulder  and  shook  it,  first  gently,  then 
roughly.  "  Answer  me,  I  say  !  " 

With  the  motion,  the  head  of  the  dead  shifted  upon 
the  pillow  and  turned  toward  the  man,  and  involuntarily 
he  loosened  his  grasp.  He  had  not  eaten  for  twenty-four 
hours,  and  in  sudden  weakness  he  made  his  way  to  one  of 
the  rough  chairs,  and  sat  down,  his  face  buried  in  his 
hands. 

Behind  him  the  boy  Benjamin,  his  sudden  hot  passion 
over,  stood  watching  intently,  —  his  face  almost  uncanny 
in  its  lack  of  childishness. 

For  a  time  there  was  absolute  silence,  the  hush  of  a 
death-chamber ;  then  of  a  sudden  the  boy  was  conscious 

[20] 


Desolation 

that  the  man  was  looking  at  him  in  a  way  he  had  never 
looked  before.  Deep  down  below  our  consciousness,  far 
beneath  the  veneer  of  civilization,  there  is  an  instinct, 
relic  of  the  vigilant  savage  days,  that  warns  us  of  personal 
danger.  By  this  instinct  the  lad  now  interpreted  the 
other's  gaze,  and  knew  that  it  meant  ill  for  him.  For 
some  reason  which  he  could  not  understand,  this  man, 
this  big  animal,  was  his  mortal  enemy  ;  and,  in  the  manner 
of  smaller  animals,  he  began  to  consider  an  avenue  of 
escape. 

"  Ben,"  spoke  the  man,  "  come  here ! " 

Tom  Blair  was  sober  now,  and  wore  a  look  of  determi 
nation  upon  his  face  that  few  had  ever  seen  there  before  ; 
but  to  his  surprise  the  boy  did  not  respond.  He  waited  a 
moment,  and  then  said  sharply  : 

"  Ben,  I  'm  speaking  to  you.     Come  here  at  once  ! " 

For  answer  there  was  a  tightening  of  the  lad's  blue  eyes 
and  an  added  watchfulness  in  the  incongruously  long 
childish  figure;  but  that  was  all. 

Another  lagging  minute  passed,  wherein  the  two  re 
garded  each  other  steadily.  The  man's  eyes  dropped  first. 

"  You  little  devil !  "  he  muttered,  and  the  passion  began 
showing  in  his  voice.  "  I  believe  you  knew  what  I  was 
thinking  all  the  time  !  Anyway,  you  '11  know  now.  You 
said  awhile  ago  that  I  was  to  blame  for  your  mother  being 
—  as  she  is.  You  're  liable  to  say  that  again."  A  horror 
greater  than  sudden  passion  was  in  the  deliberate  explana 
tion  and  in  the  slow  way  he  rose  to  his  feet.  "  I  'm  going 
to  fix  you  so  you  can't  say  it  again,  you  old-man  imp ! " 

Then  a  peculiar  thing  happened.  Instead  of  running 
[21] 


Ben  Blair 

away,  the  boy  took  a  step  forward,  and  the  man  paused, 
scarcely  believing  his  eyes.  Another  step  forward,  and 
yet  another,  came  the  diminutive  figure,  until  almost 
within  the  aggressor's  reach  ;  then  suddenly,  quick  as  a  cat, 
it  veered,  dropped  upon  all  fours  to  the  floor,  and  head 
first,  scrambling  like  a  rabbit,  disappeared  into  the  open 
mouth  of  the  dog-kennel. 

Too  late  the  man  saw  the  trick,  and  curses  came  to  his 
lips,  —  curses  fit  for  a  fiend,  fit  for  the  irresponsible  being 
he  was.  He  himself  had  built  that  kennel.  It  extended 
in  a  curve  eight  feet  into  the  solid  sod  foundation,  and  to 
get  at  the  spot  where  the  boy  now  lay  he  would  have  to 
tear  down  the  house  itself.  The  temper  which  had  made 
the  man  what  he  now  was,  a  drunkard  and  fugitive  in  a 
frontier  country,  took  possession  of  him  wholly,  and  with 
it  came  a  madman's  cunning  ;  for  at  a  sudden  thought  he 
stopped,  and  the  cursing  tongue  was  silent.  Five  minutes 
later  he  left  the  place,  closing  the  door  carefully  behind 
him  ;  but  before  that  time  a  red  jet  of  flame,  like  the 
ravenous  tongue  of  a  famished  beast,  was  lapping  at  a 
hastily  assembled  pile  of  tinder-dry  furniture  in  one  corner 
of  the  shanty. 


[22] 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  [R-  RANCH 

MR.  RANKIN  moved  back  from  a  well-discussed 
table,  and,  the  room  being  conveniently  small, 
tilted  his  chair  back  against  the  wall.  The  pro 
testing  creak  of  the  ill-glued  joints  under  the  strain  of  his 
ponderous  figure  was  a  signal  for  all  the  diners,  and  five 
other  men  likewise  drew  away  from  around  the  board. 
Rankin  extracted  a  match  and  a  stout  jack-knife  from  the 
miscellaneous  collection  of  useful  articles  in  his  capacious 
pocket,  carefully  whittled  the  bit  of  wood  to  a  point,  and 
picked  his  teeth  deliberately.  The  five  "  hands,"  sun- 
browned,  unshaven,  dissimilar  in  face  as  in  dress,  waited 
in  expectation ;  but  the  housekeeper,  a  shapeless,  stolid- 
looking  woman,  wife  of  the  foreman,  Graham,  went  me 
thodically  about  the  work  of  clearing  the  table.  Rankin 
watched  her  a  moment  indifferently ;  then  without  turning 
his  head,  his  eyes  shifted  in  their  narrow  slits  of  sockets 
until  they  rested  upon  one  of  the  cowboys. 

"  What  time  was  it  you  saw  that  smoke,  Grannis  ?  "  he 
asked. 

The  man  addressed  paused  in  the  operation  of  rolling  a 
cigarette. 

"  'Bout  an  hour  ago,  I  should  say.     I  was  just  thinking 
of  coming  in  to  dinner." 

t  23  ] 


Ben  Blair 

The  lids  met  over  Raukin's  eyes,  then  the  narrow  slit 
opened. 

"  It  was  in  the  northwest  you  say,  and  seemed  to  be 
quite  a  way  off?" 

Grannis  nodded. 

"  Yes ;  I  could  n't  make  out  any  fire,  only  the  smoke,  and 
that  did  n't  last  long.  I  thought  at  first  maybe  it  was  a 
prairie  fire,  and  started  to  see ;  but  it  was  getting  thinner 
before  I  'd  gone  a  mile,  so  I  turned  round  and  by  the  time 
I  got  back  to  the  corral  there  was  n't  nothing  at  all  to 
see." 

Two  of  the  other  hands  solemnly  exchanged  a  wink. 

"  Think  you  must  have  eaten  too  many  of  Ma  Graham's 
pancakes  this  morning,  and  had  a  blur  over  your  eyes," 
commented  one,  slyly.  "  Prairie  fires  don't  stop  that  sud 
den  when  the  grass  is  like  it  is  now." 

The  portly  housewife  paused  in  her  work  to  cast  a  look 
of  scorn  upon  the  speaker,  but  Grannis  rushed  into  the 
breach. 

"  Don't  you  believe  it.  There  was  a  fire  all  right. 
Somebody  stopped  it,  or  it  stopped  itself,  that 's  ail." 

Tilting  his  chair  forward  with  an  effort,  Rankin  got  to 
his  feet,  and,  as  usual,  his  action  brought  the  discussion 
to  an  end.  The  woman  returned  to  her  work ;  the  men 
put  on  hats  and  coats  preparatory  to  going  out  of  doors. 
Only  the  proprietor  stood  passive  a  moment  absently  draw 
ing  down  his  vest  over  his  portly  figure. 

"  Graham,"  he  said  at  last,  "  hitch  the  mustangs  to  the 
light  wagon." 

"All  right" 

[24] 


The  [R  Ranch 

«  And,  Graham  —  " 

The  man  addressed  paused. 

"  Throw  in  a  couple  of  extra  blankets." 

"All  right." 

Out  of  doors  the  men  took  up  the  conversation  where 
they  had  left  off. 

"You  better  begin  to  hope  the  old  man  finds  some 
thing  that 's  been  afire  up  there,  Grannis,"  said  the  joker 
of  the  house.  "  If  he  don't,  you  've  cooked  your  goose 
proper." 

Grannis  was  a  new-comer,  and  looked  his  surprise. 

"  Why  so  ?  "  he  asked. 

"You'll  find  out  why,"  retorted  the  other.  "Fire 
here's  'most  as  uncommon  as  rain,  and  the  boss  don't 
like  them  smoky  jokes." 

"  But  I  saw  smoke,  I  tell  you,"  reiterated  Grannis, 
defensively  ;  "  smoke,  dead  sure ! " 

"  All  right,  if  you  're  certain  sure." 

"Marcom  knows  what  he's  talking  about,  Grannis," 
said  Graham.  "  He  tried  to  ginger  things  up  a  bit  when 
he  was  new  here,  like  you  are ;  found  a  litter  of  coyotes 
one  September  —  thought  they  were  timber  wolves,  I 
guess,  and  braced  up  with  his  story  to  the  old  man."  The 
speaker  paused  with  a  reflective  grin. 

"  Well,  what  happened  ?  "  asked  Grannis. 

"What  happened?  The  boss  sent  me  dusting  about 
forty  miles  to  get  some  hounds.  Nearly  spoiled  a  good 
team  to  get  back  inside  sixteen  hours,  and  —  they  found 
out  Bill  here  in  the  next  thirty  minutes,  that  was  all ! " 
Once  more  the  story  ended  in  a  grin. 

F  25  1 


Ben  Blair 

"  What  'd  Rankin  say  ?  "  asked  Grannis,  with  interest. 

"  How  about  it.  Bill  ?  "  suggested  Graham. 

The  big  cowboy  looked  a  trifle  foolish. 

"  Oh,  he  did  n't  say  much ;  't  ain't  his  way.  He  just 
remarked,  sort  of  off-hand,  that  as  far  as  I  was  concerned 
the  next  year  had  only  about  four  pay-months  in  it. 
That  was  all." 

Whatever  is  worth  doing  at  all,  is  worth  doing  at  once. 
This  was  the  motto  of  the  master  of  the  [j^  Ranch.  In 
ten  minutes'  time  Rankin's  big  shapeless  figure,  seated  in 
the  old  buckboard,  was  moving  northwest  at  the  steady 
jog-trot  typical  of  prairie  travel,  and  which  as  the  hours 
pass  by  annihilates  distance  surprisingly.  Simply  a  fat, 
an  abnormally  fat,  man,  the  casual  observer  would  have 
said.  It  remained  for  those  who  came  in  actual  contact 
with  him  to  learn  the  force  beneath  the  forbidding  ex 
terior, —  the  relentless  bull-dog  energy  that  had  made 
him  dictator  of  the  great  ranch,  and  kept  subordinate  the 
restless,  roving,  dissolute  men-of-fortune  he  employed, — 
the  deliberate  and  impartial  judgment  which  had  made 
his  word  as  near  law  as  it  was  possible  for  any  mandate  to 
be  among  the  motley  inhabitants  within  a  radius  of  fifty 
miles.  Had  Rankin  chosen  he  could  have  attained  honor, 
position,  power  in  his  native  Eastern  home.  No  barrier 
built  of  convention  or  of  conservatism  could  have  with 
stood  him.  Society  reserves  her  prizes  largely  for  the  man 
of  initiative ;  and,  uncomely  block  as  he  was,  Rankin  was 
of  the  true  type.  But  for  some  reason,  a  reason  known 
to  none  of  his  associates,  he  had  chosen  to  come  to  the 

[26] 


The  [R  Ranch 

West.  Some  consideration  or  other  had  caused  him  to 
stop  at  his  present  abode,  and  had  made  him  apparently 
a  fixture  in  the  midst  of  this  unconquered  country. 

There  was  no  road  in  the  direction  Rankin  was  travel 
ling,  —  only  the  unbroken  prairie  sod,  eaten  close  by  the 
herds  that  grazed  its  every  foot.  Even  under  the  direct  sun 
light  the  air  was  sharp.  The  regular  breath  of  the  mustangs 
shot  out  like  puffs  of  steam  from  the  exhaust  of  an  engine, 
and  the  moisture  frosted  about  their  flanks  and  nostrils. 
But  the  big  man  on  the  seat  did  not  notice  temperature. 
He  had  produced  a  pipe  from  the  depths  beneath  the  wagon 
seat,  and  tobacco  from  a  jar  cunningly  fitted  into  one 
corner  of  the  box,  both  without  moving  from  his  place, 
the  seat  being  hinged  and  divided  in  the  centre  to  facili 
tate  the  operation.  More  a  home  to  him  than  the  ranch- 
house  itself  was  that  battered  buckboard.  Here,  on  an 
average,  he  spent  eight  hours  out  of  the  twenty-four,  and 
that  seat-box  was  a  veritable  storehouse  of  articles  used  in 
his  daily  life.  As  the  jog-trot  measured  off  the  miles  he 
replenished  the  pipe  again  and  again,  leaving  behind  him 
the  odor  of  strong  tobacco. 

Not  until  he  was  within  a  mile  of  the  "  Big  B  "  prop 
erty,  and  a  rise  in  the  monotonous  roll  of  the  land 
brought  him  in  range  of  vision,  did  Rankin  show  that  he 
felt  more  than  ordinary  interest  in  his  expedition ;  then, 
shading  his  eyes,  he  looked  steadily  ahead.  The  sod  barn 
stood  in  its  usual  place ;  the  corral,  with  its  posts  set  close 
together,  stretched  by  its  side;  but  where  the  house  had 
stood  there  could  not  be  distinguished  even  a  mound. 
The  hand  on  the  reins  tightened  meaningly,  and  in  sympa- 

[  27  ] 


Ben  Blair 

thy  the  mustangs  moved  ahead  at  a  swifter  pace,  leaving 
behind  a  trail  of  tobacco-smoke  denser  than  before. 


When  the  little  Benjamin  Blair,  fugitive,  had  literally 
taken  to  the  earth,  it  was  with  definite  knowledge  of 
the  territory  he  was  entering.  He  had  often  explored  its 
depths  with  childish  curiosity,  to  the  distress  of  his  mother 
and  the  disgust  of  the  rightful  owner,  the  mongrel  dog. 
Retreating  to  the  farther  end  of  the  cave,  the  instinct 
of  self-preservation  set  hands  and  feet  to  work  like  the 
claws  of  a  gopher,  filling  with  loose  dirt  the  narrow  pas 
sage  through  which  he  had  entered.  Panting  and  per 
spiring  with  the  effort,  choked  with  the  dust  he  raised,  all 
but  suffocated,  he  dug  until  his  strength  gave  out ;  then, 
curling  up  in  his  narrow  quarters,  he  lay  listening.  At 
first  he  heard  nothing,  not  even  a  sound  from  the  dog  ; 
and  he  wondered  at  the  fact.  He  could  not  believe  that 
Tom  Blair  would  leave  him  in  peace,  and  he  breathlessly 
awaited  the  first  tap  of  an  instrument  against  his  retreat. 
A  minute  passed,  lengthened  to  five  —  to  ten  —  and  with 
the  quick  impatience  of  childhood  he  started  to  learn  the 
reason  of  the  delay.  His  active  little  body  revolved  in 
its  nest.  In  the  darkness  a  wiry  arm  scratched  at  the 
recently  erected  barricade.  A  head  with  a  tousled  mass 
of  hair  poked  its  way  into  the  opening,  crowded  forward 
a  foot  —  two  feet,  then  stopped,  the  whole  body  quivering. 
He  had  passed  the  curve,  and  of  a  sudden  it  was  as  though 
he  had  opened  the  door  of  a  furnace  and  gazed  inside. 
Instead  of  the  familiar  room,  a  great  sheet  of  flame  walled 
him  in.  Instead  of  silence,  a  roar  as  of  a  hurricane  was 

[28] 


The  [R  Ranch 

in  his  ears.  Never  in  his  life  had  he  seen  a  great  fire,  but 
instantly  he  understood.  Instantly  the  instinctive  animal 
terror  of  fire  gripped  him ;  he  retreated  to  the  very 
depths  of  the  kennel,  and  burying  his  small  head  in  his 
arms  lay  still.  But  not  even  then,  child  though  he  was, 
did  he  utter  a  cry.  The  endurance  which  had  made 
Jennie  Blair  stare  death  impassively  in  the  face  was  part 
and  parcel  of  his  nature. 

For  the  space  of  perhaps  a  minute  Ben  lay  motionless. 
Louder  than  before  came  to  his  ears  the  roar  of  the  fire. 
Occasionally  a  hot  tongue  of  flame  intruded  mockingly 
into  the  mouth  of  his  retreat.  The  confined  air  about 
him  grew  close,  narcotic.  He  expected  to  die,  and  with 
the  premonition  of  death  an  abnormal  activity  came  to 
the  child-brain.  Whatever  knowledge  he  possessed  of 
death  was  connected  with  his  mother.  It  was  she  who 
had  given  him  his  vague  impression  of  another  life.  She 
herself,  as  she  lay  silent  and  unresponsive,  had  been  the 
first  concrete  example  of  it.  Inevitably  thought  of  her 
came  to  him  now,  —  practical,  material  thought,  crowding 
from  his  brain  the  blind  terror  that  had  been  its  predeces 
sor.  Where  was  his  mother  now  ?  He  pictured  again  the 
furnace  into  which  he  had  gazed  from  the  mouth  of  the 
kennel.  Though  perhaps  she  would  not  feel  it,  she  would 
be  burned  —  burned  to  a  crisp  —  destroyed  like  the  fuel 
he  had  tossed  into  the  makeshift  stove  !  Instinctively  he 
felt  the  sacrilege,  and  the  desire  to  do  something  to  pre 
vent  it.  Something  —  yes,  but  what?  He  was  himself 
helpless  ;  he  must  seek  outside  aid  —  but  where  ?  Sud 
denly  there  occurred  to  the  child-mind  a  suggestion  appli- 

[29] 


Ben  Blair 

cable  to  his  difficulty,  an  adequate  solution,  for  it  involved 
everything  he  had  learned  to  trust  in  life.  He  remem 
bered  a  Being  more  powerful  than  man,  more  powerful 
than  fire  or  cold,  —  a  Being  whom  his  mother  had  called 
God.  Believing  in  Him,  it  was  necessary  only  to  ask  for 
whatever  one  wished.  For  himself,  even  to  save  his  life, 
he  would  not  call  upon  this  Being ;  but  for  his  mamma ! 
In  childish  faith  he  folded  his  hands  and  closed  his  eyes  in 
the  darkness. 

"  God,'1  he  prayed,  "  please  put  out  this  fire  and  save 
my  mamma  from  burning  !  " 

The  small  hands  loosened  and  the  lips  parted  to  hear 
the  first  diminution  in  the  growl  of  the  flame.  But  it 
roared  on. 

"  God !  "  The  hands  were  clasped  again,  the  voice 
vibrant  with  pleading.  "  God,  please  put  out  the  fire ! 
Please  put  it  out ! " 

Silence  again  within,  but  without  only  the  steady  roar 
ing  crackle.  Could  it  be  possible  the  petition  had  not 
been  heard  ?  The  childish  hands  met  more  tightly  than 
before.  The  small  body  fairly  writhed. 

"  God  !  God ! "  he  implored  for  the  third  time.  "Listen 
to  me,  please  !  Save  my  mamma,  my  mamma !  " 

For  a  moment  the  little  figure  lay  still.  Surely  there 
would  be  an  answer  now.  His  mamma  had  said  there 
would  be,  and  whatever  his  mamma  had  told  him  had  al 
ways  come  true.  The  air  about  him  was  so  close  he  could 
scarcely  breathe;  but  he  did  not  notice  it.  Reversing 
head  and  feet,  he  started  out  of  the  kennel.  It  was  cer 
tainly  time  to  leave.  The  roar  he  had  heard  must  have 

[30] 


The  IR  Ranch 

been  of  the  wind.  Assuredly  God  had  acted  before  this. 
Head  first,  gasping,  he  moved  on,  reached  the  curve,  and 
looked  out. 

Indignation  took  possession  of  the  little  figure.  The 
fingers  clinched  until  the  nails  bit  deep  into  the  soft 
palms.  The  whole  body  trembled  in  impotent  anger  and 
outraged  self-respect.  Upon  the  face  of  the  small  man 
was  suddenly  written  the  implacable  defiance  which  one 
sees  in  carnivora  when  wounded  and  cornered  —  intensi 
fied  as  an  expression  can  only  be  intensified  upon  a  human 
face  —  as,  almost  unconsciously,  he  returned  to  the  hollow 
he  had  left,  and  fairly  thrust  his  tousled  head  into  the 
kindly  earth. 

How  long  he  remained  there  he  did  not  know.  The 
stifling  atmosphere  of  the  place  gradually  overcame  him. 
Anger,  wonder,  the  multitude  of  thoughts  crowding  his 
child-brain,  slowly  faded  away ;  consciousness  lapsed,  and 
he  slept. 

When  he  awoke  it  was  with  a  start  and  a  vague  wonder 
as  to  his  whereabouts.  Then  memory  returned,  and  he 
listened  intently.  Not  a  sound  could  he  distinguish  save 
his  own  breathing,  as  he  slowly  made  his  way  to  the  mouth 
of  the  kennel.  Before  him  was  the  opposite  sod  wall  of 
the  house  standing  as  high  as  his  head ;  above  that,  the 
blue  of  the  sky ;  upon  what  had  been  the  earthen  floor,  a 
strewing  of  ashes ;  over  all,  calm,  glorious,  the  slanting 
rays  of  the  low  afternoon  sun.  A  moment  the  boy  lay 
gazing  out ;  then  he  crawled  to  his  feet,  shaking  off  the 
dirt  as  a  dog  does.  One  glance  about,  and  the  blue  eyes 
halted.  A  moisture  came  into  them,  gathered  into  drops, 

[31] 


Ben  Blair 

and  then,  breaking  over  the  barrier  of  the  long  lashes, 
tears  flowed  through  the  accumulated  grime,  down  the 
thin  cheeks,  leaving  a  clean  pathway  behind.  That  was 
all,  for  an  instant;  then  a  look  —  terrible  in  a  mature 
person  and  doubly  so  in  a  child  —  came  over  the  long 
face,  —  an  expression  partaking  of  both  hate  and  ven 
geance.  It  mirrored  an  emotion  that  in  a  nature  such  as 
that  of  Benjamin  Blair  would  never  be  forgotten.  Some 
day,  for  some  one,  there  would  be  a  moment  of  reckoning ; 
for  the  child  was  looking  at  the  charred,  unrecognizable 
corpse  of  his  mother. 

A  half-hour  later,  Rankin,  steaming  into  the  yard  of 
the  Big  B  Ranch,  came  upon  a  scene  that  savored  much 
of  a  play.  It  was  so  dramatic  that  the  big  man  paused  in 
contemplation  of  it.  He  saw  there  the  sod  and  ashes  of 
what  had  once  been  a  home.  The  place  must  have  burned 
like  tinder,  for  now,  but  a  few  hours  from  the  time  when 
Grannis  had  first  given  the  alarm,  not  an  atom  of  smoke 
ascended.  At  one  end  of  the  quadrangular  space  enclosed 
by  the  walls  stood  the  makeshift  stove,  discolored  with  the 
heat,  as  was  the  length  of  pipe  by  its  side.  Near  by  was 
a  heap  of  warped  iron  and  tin  cooking  utensils.  At  one 
side,  covered  by  an  old  gunny-sack  and  a  boy's  tattered 
coat,  was  another  object  the  form  of  which  the  observer 
could  not  distinguish. 

In  the  middle  of  the  plat,  standing  a  few  inches  below 
the  surface,  was  a  small  boy,  and  in  his  hands  a  very  large 
spade.  He  wore  a  man's  discarded  shirt,  with  sleeves 
rolled  up  at  the  wrist,  and  neck-band  pinned  tight  at  one 

[32] 


The  [R  Ranch 

side.  Obviously,  he  had  been  digging,  for  a  small  pile  of 
fresh  dirt  was  heaped  at  his  right.  Now,  however,  he  was 
motionless,  the  blue  eyes  beneath  the  long  lashes  observing 
the  new-comer  inquiringly.  That  was  all,  save  that  to  the 
picture  was  added  the  background  of  the  unbroken  silence 
of  the  prairie. 

The  man  was  the  first  to  break  the  spell.  He  got  out 
of  the  wagon  clumsily,  walked  around  the  wall,  and  entered 
the  quadrangle  by  what  had  been  the  door. 

"  What  are  you  doing  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Digging,"  replied  the  boy,  resuming  his  work. 

"  Digging  what  ?  " 

The  boy  lifted  out  a  double  handful  of  dirt  upon  the 
big  spade. 

"A  grave." 

The  man  glanced  about  again. 

"For  some  pet?" 

The  boy  shook  his  head. 

"  No  —  sir,"  the  latter  word  coming  as  an  after-thought. 
His  mother  had  taught  him  that  title  of  respect. 

Rankin  changed  the  line  of  interrogation. 

"  Where  's  Tom  Blair,  young  man  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  sir." 

"  Your  mother,  then,  where  is  she  ?  " 

"  My  mother  is  dead." 

"Dead?" 

The  child's  blue  eyes  did  not  falter. 

"  I  am  digging  her  grave,  sir." 

For  a  time  Rankin  did  not  speak  or  stir.  Amid  the 
stubbly  beard  the  great  jaws  closed,  until  it  seemed  the 
3  [  33  ] 


Ben  Blair 

pipe-stem  must  be  broken.  His  eyes  narrowed,  as  when, 
before  starting,  he  had  questioned  the  cowboy  Grannis; 
then  of  a  sudden  he  rose  and  laid  a  detaining  hand  upon 
the  worker's  shoulder.  He  understood  at  last. 

"  Stop  a  minute,  son,"  he  said.    "  I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

The  lad  looked  up. 

"  How  did  it  happen  —  the  fire  and  your  mother's 
death?" 

No  answer,  only  the  same  strangely  scrutinizing  look. 

Rankin  repeated  the  question  a  bit  curtly. 

Ben  Blair  calmly  removed  the  man's  hand  from  his 
shoulder  and  looked  him  fairly  in  the  eyes. 

"  Why  do  you  wish  to  know,  sir  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  big  man  made  no  answer.  Why  did  he  wish  to 
know  ?  What  answer  could  he  give  ?  He  paced  back 
and  forth  across  the  narrow  confines  of  the  four  sod  walls. 
Once  he  paused,  gazing  at  the  little  lad  questioningly,  not 
as  one  looks  at  a  child  but  as  man  faces  man  ;  then,  tramp, 
tramp,  he  paced  on  again.  At  last,  as  suddenly  as  before, 
he  halted,  and  glanced  sidewise  at  the  uncompleted  grave. 

"You're  quite  sure  you  want  to  bury  your  mother 
here  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  lad  nodded  silently. 

"And  alone?" 

Again  the  nod. 

"  Yes,  I  heard  her  say  once  she  wished  it  so." 

Without  comment,  Rankin  removed  his  coat  and  took 
the  spade  from  the  boy's  hand. 

"  I'll  help  you,  then." 

For  a  half-hour  he  worked  steadily,  descending  lower 
[34] 


The  [R  Ranch 

and  lower  into  the  dry  earth  ;  then,  pausing,  he  wiped  the 
perspiration  from  his  face. 

"  Are  you  cold,  son  ?  "  he  asked  directly, 

"  Not  very,  sir."     But  the  lad's  teeth  were  chattering. 

"A  bit,  though?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  simply. 

"  All  right,  you'll  find  some  blankets. out  in  the  wagon, 
Ben.  You  'd  better  go  out  and  get  one  and  put  it  around 
you." 

The  boy  started  to  obey0     "  Thank  you,  sir,"  he  said. 

Rankin  returned  to  his  work.  In  the  west  the  sun 
dropped  slowly  beneath  the  horizon,  leaving  a  wonderful 
golden  light  behind.  The  waiting  horses,  too  well  trained 
to  move  from  their  places,  shifted  uneasily  amid  much  creak 
ing  of  harness.  Within  the  grave  the  digger's  head  sunk 
lower  and  lower,  while  the  mound  by  the  side  grew  higher 
and  higher.  The  cold  increased.  Across  the  prairie,  a 
multitude  of  black  specks  advanced,  grew  large,  whizzed 
overhead,  then  retreated,  their  wings  cutting  the  keen  air, 
and  silence  returned. 

Darkness  was  falling  when  at  last  Rankin  clambered 
out  to  the  surface. 

"  Another  blanket,  Ben,  please." 

Without  a  glance  beneath,  he  wrapped  the  object  under 
the  old  gunny-sack  round  and  round  with  the  rough  wool 
winding-sheet,  and,  carrying  it  to  the  edge  of  the  grave, 
himself  descended  clumsily  and  placed  it  gently  at  his  feet. 
The  pit  was  deep,  and  in  getting  out  he  slipped  back 
twice  ;  but  he  said  nothing.  Outside,  he  paused  a  moment, 
looking  at  the  boy  gravely. 

[35] 


Ben  Blair 

"  Anything  you  wish  to  say,  Benjamin  ?" 

The  lad  returned  the  gaze  with  equal  gravity. 

"  I  don't  know  of  anything,  sir." 

The  man  paused  a  moment  longer. 

"  Nor  I,  Ben,"  he  said  gently. 

Again  the  spade  resumed  its  work  ;  and  the  impassive 
earth  returned  dully  to  its  former  resting-place.  Dusk 
came  on,  but  Rankin  did  not  look  about  him  until  the 
mound  was  neatly  rounded  ;  then  he  turned  to  where  he 
had  left  the  little  boy  so  bravely  erect.  But  the  small 
figure  was  not  standing  now  ;  instead,  it  was  prone  on  the 
ground  amid  the  dust  and  ashes. 

"  Ben  ! "  said  Rankin,  gently.     "  Ben !  " 

No  answer. 

"  Ben  !  "  he  repeated. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

For  a  moment  a  small  thin  face  appeared  above  the 
dishevelled  figure,  and  a  great  sob  shook  the  little  frame. 
Then  the  head  disappeared  again. 

"  I  can't  help  it,  sir,"  wailed  a  muffled  voice.  "  She  was 
my  mamma ! " 


361 


CHAPTER  IV 

BEN'S  NEW  HOME 

SUPPER  was  over  at  the  [II  Ranch.  From  the 
tiny  lean-to  the  muffled  rattle  of  heavy  table-ware 
proclaimed  the  fact  that  Ma  Graham  was  putting 
things  in  readiness  for  breakfast.  Beside  the  sheet-iron 
heater  in  the  front  room,  her  husband,  carefully  swaddled 
in  a  big  checked  apron  with  the  strings  tied  in  a  bow  under 
his  left  ear,  was  busily  engaged  in  dressing  the  half-dozen 
prairie  chickens  he  had  trapped  that  day0  As  fast  as  he 
removed  the  feathers  he  thrust  them  into  the  stove,  and 
the  pungent  odor  mingled  with  the  suggestive  tang  of  the 
bacon  that  had  been  the  foundation  of  the  past  supper, 
and  with  the  odor  of  cigarettes  with  which  the  other  four 
men  were  permeating  the  place. 

Graham  critically  held  up  to  the  light  the  bird  upon 
which  he  had  just  been  operating,  removed  a  few  scattered 
feathers,  and,  with  practised  hand,  attacked  its  successor. 

"  If  I  were  doing  this  job  for  myself,1"  he  commented, 
"  I  'd  skin  the  beasts.  Life  is  too  blamed  short  to  waste  it 
in  pulling  out  feathers  ! " 

Grannis,  the  new-comer  from  no  one  knew  where,  smiledo 

"  It  would  look  to  me  that  you  were  doing  it,"  he  re 
marked.  "  I  'd  like  to  ask  for  information,  who  is  if  you 
ain't?" 

[37] 


Ben  Blair 

The  clatter  of  dishes  suddenly  ceased,  and  Graham's 
labor  stopped  in  sympathy0 

66  My  boy,"  he  asked  in  reply,  "  were  you  ever  married  ?  " 

Beneath  its  coat  of  tan,  Grannis's  face  flushed ;  but  he 
did  not  answer. 

A  second  passed ;  then  the  plucking  of  feathers  was 
continued. 

"  I  reckon  you  Ve  never  been,  though,*"  Graham  went 
on,  "  else  you  'd  never  ask  that  question." 

During  the  remainder  of  the  evening,  Grannis  sought 
no  further  information ;  and  to  Ma  Graham's  narrow  life 
a  new  interest  was  added. 

Ordinarily  the  cowboys  went  to  their  bunks  in  an  ad 
joining  shed  almost  directly  after  supper,  but  this  evening, 
without  giving  a  reason,  they  lingered.  The  housekeeper 
finished  her  work,  and,  coming  into  the  main  room,  took  a 
chair  and  sat  down,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap.  The 
grouse  dressed,  Graham  ranged  them  in  a  row  upon  the 
lean-to  table,  removed  the  apron,  and  lit  his  pipe  in 
silence.  The  cowboys  rolled  fresh  cigarettes  and  puffed 
at  them  steadily,  the  four  stumps  close  together  glowing 
in  the  dimness  of  the  room.  As  everywhere  upon  the 
prairie,  the  quiet  was  almost  a  thing  to  feel. 

At  last,  when  the  silence  had  become  oppressive,  the 
foreman  took  the  pipe  from  his  mouth  and  blew  a  short 
puff  of  smoke. 

"Seems  like  the  boss  ought  to've  got  back  before  this," 
he  said  with  a  sidelong  glance  at  his  wife. 

Ma  Graham  nodded  corroboration. 

" Yes;  must  have  found  something  wrong,  I  guess." 
[38] 


Ben's  New  Home 

She  refolded  her  hands,  and  once  more  relapsed  into 
silence. 

It  was  the  breaking  of  the  ice,  however. 

"Where  d^ye  suppose  the  trouble  could  have  been, 
Graham  ?  "  It  was  another  late-comer,  Bud  Buck,  young 
and  narrow  of  hips,  who  spoke. 

"At  Blair's,"  was  the  answer.  "The  Big  B  is  the 
closest." 

"Blair?"  The  questioner  puffed  at  his  cigarette 
thoughtfully.  "  Guess  I  never  heard  of  him." 

"  Must  be  a  stranger  in  these  parts,  then,"  said  Marcom. 
"  Most  everybody  knows  Tom  Blair."  He  paused  to  give 
an  all-including  glance.  "  At  least  well  enough  to  get  a 
slice  of  his  dough,"  he  finished  with  a  sarcastic  laugh. 

"  Does  he  handle  the  pasteboards  ?  "  asked  Buck,  with 
interest. 

"  Tries  to,"  contemptuously. 

The  curiosity  of  the  youthful  Bud  was  now  thoroughly 
aroused. 

"  What  kind  of  a  fellow  is  he,  anyway  ?  "  he  went  on. 
"  Does  he  go  it  alone  up  at  his  ranch  ?  " 

At  the  last  question  Bill  Marcom,  discreetly  silent, 
shifted  his  eyes  in  the  direction  of  the  foreman,  and, 
following  them,  Bud  surprised  a  covert  glance  between 
Graham  and  his  wife.  It  was  the  latter  who  finally 
answered. 


Buck  was  not  without  intuition,  and  he  shifted  to  safer 
ground. 

"  Got  much  of  a  herd,  has  he  ?" 
[39] 


Ben  Blair 

Marcom  rolled  a  fresh  cigarette  skilfully,  and  drew  the 
string  of  the  tobacco  pouch  taut  with  his  teeth. 

"He  did  have,  one  time,  but  I  don't  believe  he's  got 
many  left  now.  There's  been  a  bunch  lost  there  every 
storm  I  can  remember.  He  don't  keep  any  punchers  to 
look  after  'em,  and  he's  never  on  hand  himself.  The 
woman  and  the  kid,"  with  a  peculiar  glance  at  the  stout 
housekeeper,  "  saved  'em  part  of  the  time,  but  mostly 
they  just  drifted."  The  speaker  blew  a  great  cloud  of 
smoke,  and  the  veins  at  his  temples  swelled.  "It's  a 
shame,  the  way  he  neglects  his  stock  and  lets  'em  starve 
and  freeze!" 

The  blood  coursed  hot  in  the  veins  of  Bud  Buck. 

"  Why  don't  somebody  step  in  ?  " 

There  was  a  meaning  silence,  broken  at  last  by 
Graham. 

"  We  would  Ve  —  with  a  rope  —  if  it  had  n't  been  for 
the  boss.  He  tried  to  help  the  fellow ;  went  over  there 
lots  of  times  himself —  weather  colder  than  the  devil,  too, 
and  with  the  wind  and  sleet  so  bad  you  could  n't  see  the 
team  ahead  of  you  —  until  one  time  last  Winter  Blair 
came  home  full,  and  caught  him  there."  The  narrative 
paused,  and  the  black  pipe  puffed  reminiscently.  "The 
boss  never  said  much,  but  I  guess  they  must  have  had 
quite  a  session.  Anyway,  Rankin  never  went  again,  and 
from  the  way  he  looked  when  he  got  back  here,  half  froze, 
and  the  mustangs  beat  out,  I  reckon  Blair  never  knew 
how  close  he  come  to  a  necktie  party  that  day." 

Again  silence  fell,  and  remained  unbroken  until  Graham 
suddenly  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  with  "  That 's  him  now ! 


Ben's  New  Home 

I  could  tell  that  old  blackboard  if  I  was  in  my  grave !  " 
hurried  on  coat  and  hat  and  disappeared  into  the  night. 
A  minute  more  and  the  door  through  which  he  had 
passed  opened  slowly,  and  the  figure  of  a  small  boy, 
wrapped  like  an  Indian  in  a  big  blanket,  stepped  timidly 
inside  and  stood  blinking  in  the  light. 

In  anticipation  of  a  very  different  arrival  the  house 
keeper  had  risen  to  her  feet,  and  now  in  surprise,  arms 
akimbo,  she  stood  looking  curiously  at  the  stranger.  In 
this  land  at  this  time  the  young  of  every  other  animal 
native  thereto  was  common,  but  a  child,  a  white  child, 
was  a  novelty  indeed.  Many  a  cow-puncher,  bachelor 
among  bachelors,  could  testify  that  it  had  been  years  since 
he  had  seen  the  like.  But  Ma  Graham  was  not  a  bach 
elor,  and  in  her  the  maternal  instinct,  though  repressed, 
was  strong.  It  was  barely  an  instant  before  she  was  at  the 
little  lad's  side,  unwinding  the  blanket  with  deft  hands. 

"  Who  be  you,  anyway,  and  where  'd  you  come  from  ?  " 
she  exclaimed. 

The  child  observed  her  gravely. 

"Benjamin  Blair's  my  name.     I  came  with  the  man." 

The  husk  was  off  the  lad  ere  this,  and  the  woman  was 
rubbing  his  small  hands  vigorously. 

"  Cold,  ain't  you  ?  Come  right  over  to  the  fire ! "  her 
self  leading  the  way.  "And  hungry  —  I'll  bet  you're 
hungrier  than  a  wolf ! " 

The  lad  nodded.     "  Yes,  ma'am." 

The  woman  straightened  up  and  looked  down  at  her 
charge. 

"  Of  course  you  are.     All  little  boys  are  hungry."     She 


Ben  Blair 

cast  a  challenging  glance  around  the  group  of  interested 
spectators. 

"  Fix  the  fire,  one  of  you,  while  I  get  something  hot  for 
the  kid,""  she  said,  and  ambled  toward  the  lean-to. 

If  the  men  thought  to  have  their  curiosity  concerning 
the  youngster  satisfied  by  word  of  mouth,  however,  they 
were  doomed  to  be  disappointed;  for  when  Rankin  himself 
entered  it  was  as  though  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary  had 
happened.  He  hung  up  his  coat  methodically,  and,  with 
the  boy  by  his  side,  partook  of  the  hastily  prepared  meal 
impassively,  as  was  his  wont.  It  could  not  have  escaped 
him  that  the  small  Benjamin  ate  and  ate  until  it  seemed 
marvellous  that  one  stomach  could  accommodate  so  much 
food ;  but  he  made  no  comment,  and  when  at  last  the  boy 
succumbed  to  a  final  plateful,  he  tilted  back  against  the 
wall  for  his  last  smoke  for  the  day.  This  was  the  usual 
signal  of  dismissal,  and  the  hands  put  on  their  hats  and 
filed  silently  out. 

Without  more  words  the  foreman  and  his  wife  prepared 
for  the  night.  The  dishes  were  cleared  away  and  piled  in 
the  lean-to.  From  either  end  of  the  room  bunks,  broad 
as  beds,  were  let  down  from  the  wall,  and  the  blankets 
that  formed  their  linings  were  carefully  smoothed  out. 
Along  the  pole  extending  across  the  middle  of  the  room, 
another  set  was  drawn,  dividing  the  room  in  two.  Then 
the  two  disappeared  with  a  simple  "  Good-night." 

Rankin  and  the  boy  sat  alone  looking  at  each  other. 
From  across  the  blanket  partition  there  came  the  muffled 
sound  of  movement,  the  impact  of  Graham's  heavy  boots 
as  they  dropped  to  the  floor,  and  then  silence. 

[  42  ] 


Ben's  New  Home 

"  Better  go  to  bed,  Ben,"  suggested  Rankin,  with  a  nod 
toward  the  bunk. 

The  boy  at  once  went  through  the  process  of  disrobing, 
and,  crawling  in  between  the  blankets,  pulled  them  up  about 
his  chin.  But  the  blue  eyes  did  not  close.  Instead,  they 
rested  steadily  upon  the  man's  face.  Rankin  returned  the 
look,  and  then  the  stubby  pipe  left  his  mouth. 

"What  is  it,  Ben?" 

The  boy  hesitated.  "  Am  I  to  —  to  stay  with  you  ?  " 
he  asked  at  last. 

"  Yes." 

For  an  instant  the  questioner  seemed  satisfied ;  then 
the  peculiar  inquiring  look  returned. 

"  Anything  else,  son  ?  " 

The  lad  hesitated  longer  than  before.  Beneath  the 
coverings  his  body  moved  restlessly. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  want  to  know  why  nobody  would  come  to 
help  my  mamma  if  she'd  sent  for  them.  She  said  they 
would  n't." 

The  pipe  left  Rankin's  mouth,  his  great  jaws  closing 
with  an  audible  click. 

"  You  wish  to  know  —  what  did  you  say,  Ben  ?" 

The  boy  repeated  the  question. 

For  a  minute,  and  then  another,  Rankin  said  nothing ; 
then  he  knocked  the  ashes  from  the  bowl  of  his  brier  and 
laid  it  upon  the  table. 

"  Never  mind  now  why  they  would  n't,  son."  He 
arose  heavily  and  drew  off  his  coat.  "  You  '11  find  out  for 
yourself  quickly  enough  —  too  quickly,  my  boy.  Now 
go  to  sleep." 

[  43  ] 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  EXOTICS 

SOME  men  acquire  involuntary  prominence  by  being 
democratic  amid  aristocratic  surroundings.  Others, 
on  the  contrary,  but  with  the  same  result,  continue 
to  live  the  life  to  which  they  were  born,  even  when  placed 
amid  surroundings  that  make  their  actions  all  but  gro 
tesque.  An  example  of  this  latter  class  was  Scotty  Baker, 
whose  ranch,  as  the  wild  goose  flies,  was  thirteen  miles 
west  of  the  [R. 

Scotty  was  a  very  English  Englishman,  with  an  inborn 
love  of  fine  horse-flesh  and  a  guileless  nature.  Some  years 
before  he  had  fallen  into  the  hands  of  a  promoter,  and 
had  bartered  a  goodly  proportion  of  his  worldly  belong 
ings  for  a  horse-ranch  in  Dakota,  to  be  taken  possession 
of  immediately.  Long  indeed  was  the  wail  which  went  up 
from  his  home  in  Sussex  when  the  fact  was  made  known. 
Neighbors  were  fluent  in  denunciation,  relatives  insistent 
in  expostulation ;  his  wife,  and  in  sympathy  their  baby 
daughter,  copious  in  the  argument  of  tears ;  but  the  die 
was  irrevocably  cast.  Go  he  would,  —  not  from  voluntary 
stubbornness,  but  because  he  must. 

The  actual  departure  of  the  Bakers  was  much  like  the 
sailing  of  Columbus.  Probably  not  one  of  the  friends 

[44] 


The  Exotics 

who  saw  them  off  for  their  new  home  expected  ever  to  see 
the  family  again.  Indians  they  were  confident  were  ram 
pant,  and  frantic  for  scalps.  Should  any  by  a  miracle 
escape  the  savages,  the  tremendous  herds  of  buffalo,  run 
ning  amuck,  here  and  there,  could  not  fail  to  trample  the 
survivors  into  the  dust  of  the  prairie.  By  comparison, 
war  was  a  benignant  prospect;  and  sighs  mingled  until 
the  sound  was  as  the  wailing  of  winds. 

Scotty  was  very  cheerful  through  it  all,  very  encourag 
ing  even  in  the  face  of  incontestibly  unfavorable  evidence, 
until,  with  the  few  remnants  of  civilization  they  had 
brought  with  them,  the  family  arrived  at  the  wind-beaten 
terminus,  a  hundred  miles  from  his  newly  acquired  prop 
erty.  Then  for  the  first  time  he  wilted. 

"  I  've  been  an  ass,"  he  admitted  bitterly,  as  he  glanced 
in  impotent  contempt  at  the  handful  of  weather-stained 
buildings  which  on  the  map  bore  the  name  of  a  town ; 
"  an  ass,  an  egregious,  abominable,  blethering  ass  ! "" 

But,  notwithstanding  his  lack  of  the  practical,  Scotty 
was  made  of  good  stuff.  It  was  not  an  alternative  but  a 
necessity  that  faced  him  now,  and  he  arose  right  manfully 
to  the  occasion.  Despite  his  wife's  assertion  that  she 
"  never,  never  would  go  any  farther  into  this  God-forsaken 
country,"  he  succeeded  in  getting  her  into  a  lumber-wagon 
and  headed  for  what  he  genially  termed  "the  interior.1'' 
At  last  he  even  succeeded  in  making  her  smile  at  his  efforts 
to  make  the  disreputable  mule  pack-team  he  had  secured 
move  faster  than  a  walk. 

Once  in  possession  of  his  own,  however,  he  returned  to 
his  customary  easy  manner  of  life.  It  took  him  a  very 

[45] 


Ben  Blair 

short  time  to  discover  that  he  had  purchased  a  gold 
brick.  Horses,  especially  fine  horses,  were  in  no  demand 
there  ;  but  this  fact  did  not  alter  his  course  in  the  least. 
A  horse-ranch  he  had  bought,  a  horse-ranch  he  would 
run,  though  every  man  west  of  the  Mississippi  should 
smile.  He  enlarged  his  tiny  shack  to  a  cottage  of  three 
rooms ;  put  in  floor  and  ceiling,  and  papered  the  walls.  Out 
of  poles  and  prairie  sod  he  fashioned  a  serviceable  barn,  and 
built  an  admirable  horse  paddock.  Last  of  all  he  planted 
in  his  dooryard,  in  artistic  irregularity,  a  wagon-load  of 
small  imported  trees.  The  fact  that  within  six  months 
they  all  died  caused  him  slight  misgiving.  He  at  least 
had  done  what  he  could  to  beautify  the  earth ;  that  he 
failed  was  nature's  fault,  not  his. 

Once  settled,  he  began  to  make  acquaintances.  Methodi 
cally,  to  the  members  of  one  ranch  at  a  time,  he  sent  invita 
tions  to  dinner,  and  upon  the  appointed  date  he  confronted 
his  guests  with  a  spectacle  which  made  them  all  but  doubt 
their  identity,  the  like  of  which  most  of  them  had  never 
even  seen  before.  Fancy  a  cowboy  rancher,  clad  in  flannel 
and  leather,  welcomed  by  a  host  and  hostess  in  complete 
evening  dress,  ushered  into  a  room  which  contained  a  carpet 
and  a  piano,  and  had  lace  curtains  at  the  windows ;  seated 
later  at  a  table  covered  with  pure  linen  and  set  with  real 
china  and  cut-glass.  The  experience  was  like  a  dream  to 
the  visitor.  Temporarily,  as  in  a  dream,  the  evening 
would  pass  without  conscious  volition  upon  the  latter's 
part ;  and  not  until  later,  when  he  was  at  home,  would  the 
full  significance  of  the  experience  assert  itself,  and  his  won 
der  and  admiration  find  vent  in  words.  Then  indeed 

[46] 


The  Exotics 

would  the  fame  of  Scotty  Baker,  his  wife,  and  little  daugh 
ter,  be  heard  in  the  land. 

Early  in  his  career,  Scotty  began  to  cultivate  the  im 
passive  Rankin.  He  fairly  bombarded  the  big  rancher 
with  courtesies  and  invitations.  No  holiday  (and  Scotty 
was  an  assiduous  observer  of  holidays)  was  complete  un 
less  Rankin  was  present  to  help  celebrate.  No  improve 
ment  about  the  ranch  was  definitely  undertaken  until 
Rankin  had  expressed  a  favorable  opinion  concerning  the 
project.  Gradually,  so  gradually  that  the  big  man  him 
self  did  not  realize  the  change,  he  fell  under  Scotty's 
influence,  and  more  and  more  frequently  he  was  to  be 
found  headed  toward  the  cosey  Baker  cottage.  Now,  for 
a  year  or  more,  scarcely  a  Sunday  had  passed  without  one 
or  the  other  of  the  men  finding  it  possible  to  traverse  the 
thirty  miles  intervening  between  them,  to  spend  a  few 
hours  in  each  other's  company. 

It  was  in  pursuance  of  this  laudable  intention  that  on  the 
second  morning  following  Ben  Blair's  adoption  into  the 
|^  Ranch  —  a  Sunday  — the  Englishman  hitched  a  team  of 
his  best  blooded  trotters  to  the  antiquated  phaeton,  which 
was  the  only  vehicle  he  possessed,  and  started  across  country 
at  a  lively  clip.  Thus  it  came  to  pass  that  about  two 
hours  later,  having  tied  his  team  at  the  barn  and  started 
for  the  ranch-house,  the  visitor  saw  squarely  in  his  path 
upon  the  sunny  south  doorstep  an  object  that  made  him 
pause  and  blink  his  near-sighted  eyes.  Under  the  concen 
tration  of  his  vision,  the  object  resolved  itself  into  a  small 
boy  perched  like  a  frog  upon  a  rock,  his  fingers  locked 
across  his  shins,  his  chin  upon  his  knees.  For  an  instant 

[47] 


Ben  Blair 

the  Englishman  hesitated.     Courtesy  was  instinctive  with 
him. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  whether  Mr.  Rankin  is  at  home  ?  " 
he  asked. 

The  lad  calmly  disentangled  himself  and  stood  up. 

"  You  mean  the  big  man,  sir  ?  " 

Again  Scotty  was  guilty  of  a  breach  of  etiquette,  lie 
stared. 

"  Certainly,"  he  replied  at  last. 

Ben  Blair  stepped  out  of  the  way. 

"Yes,  sir,  he  is." 

Within  the  ranch-house  Scotty  dropped  into  the  nearest 
chair. 

"  Tell  me,  Rankin,"  he  began,  "  who  is  the  newcomer, 
and  where  did  you  get  him  ? "  A  long  leg  swung  com 
fortably  over  its  mate.  "  And,  by  the  way,  while  you  Ye 
about  it,  is  he  six  or  sixty  ?  By  Jove,  I  could  n't  tell !  " 

The  host  looked  at  his  visitor  quizzically. 

"  Ben,  I  suppose  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Ben,  or  Tom,  I  don't  know.  I  mean  the  gentleman 
on  the  front  steps,  the  one  who  did  n't  know  your  name,11 
and  the  Englishman  related  the  recent  conversation. 

The  corners  of  Rankin's  eyes  tightened  into  an  un 
wonted  smile  as  he  listened,  and  then  contracted  until 
the  corner  of  the  large  mouth  drew  upward  in  sympathy. 

"  I  'm  not  surprised,  Baker,11  he  admitted,  "  that  you  're 
in  doubt  about  Ben^  age.  He  "s  eight ;  but  I  \I  be 
uncertain  myself  if  I  did  n't  absolutely  know.  As  to  his 
not  knowing  my  name  —  it  ""s  just  struck  me  that  I  Ve 
never  introduced  myself  to  the  little  fellow." 

[48] 


The  Exotics 

"  But  how  did  you  come  to  get  him  ?  This  is  n't  a 
country  where  one  sees  many  children  roaming  around." 

"No,"  the  big  mouth  dropped  back  into  its  normal 
shape;  "  that's  a  fact.  He  did  n't  just  drop  in.  I  got  him 
by  adoption,  I  suppose ;  least  ways,  I  asked  him  to  come 
and  live  with  me,  and  he  accepted."  The  speaker  turned 
to  his  companion  directly.  "  You  knew  Jennie  Blair,  did 
you?" 

Scotty  looked  interested. 

"  Knew  of  her,  but  never  had  the  pleasure  of  an  ac 
quaintance.  I  always — " 

"  Well,"  interrupted  Rankin  impassively,  "  Ben 's  her 
son.  She  died  awhile  ago,  you  remember,  and  somehow  it 
seemed  to  break  Blair  all  up.  He  would  n't  stay  here  any 
longer,  and  did  n't  want  to  take  the  kid  with  him,  so  I  took 
the  youngster  in.  As  far  as  I  know,  the  arrangement  will 
stick." 

For  a  minute  there  was  silence.  Scotty  observed  his 
host  shrewdly,  almost  sceptically. 

"  That 's  all  of  the  story,  is  it  ?  "  he  asked  at  last. 

"  All,  as  far  as  I  know." 

Scotty  continued  his  observation  a  moment  longer. 

"  But  not  all  the  kid  knows,  I  judge." 

The  host  made  no  comment,  and  in  a  distinctively  ab 
sent  manner  the  Englishman  removed  his  glasses  and 
cleaned  the  lenses  upon  the  tail  of  his  Sunday  frock-coat. 

"  By  the  way,"  —  Scotty  returned  the  glasses  to  his  nose 
and  sprung  the  bows  over  his  ears  with  a  snap,  —  "  what 
day  was  it  that  Blair  left  ?  Did  it  happen  to  be  Friday  ?" 

"  Yes,  Friday." 
*  [49] 


Ben  Blair 

w  And  he  does  n't  intend  ever  to  return  ?  " 

"  I  believe  not." 

The  visitor's  eyes  flashed  swiftly  around  the  room. 
The  two  men  were  alone. 

"  I  think,  then,  I  see  through  it."  The  voice  was 
lower  than  before.  "  One  of  my  best  mares  disappeared 
night  before  last,  and  I  have  n't  been  able  to  get  trace  of 
a  hoof  or  hair  since." 

"  What  ?  "     Rankin  was  interested  at  last. 

Scotty  repeated  the  statement,  and  his  host  eyed  him  a 
full  half  minute  steadily. 

"  And  you  just  —  tell  of  it  ?  "  he  said  at  last. 

The  Englishman  shifted  uneasily  in  his  seat. 

"  Yes."  Forgetting  that  he  had  just  polished  his 
glasses,  he  took  them  off  and  went  through  the  process 
again. 

"  Yes,  I  may  as  well  be  honest,  I  Ve  seen  a  bit  of  these 
Westerners  about  here,  and  I  don't  really  agree  with  their 
scheme  of  justice.  They  Ve  apt  to  put  two  and  two 
together  and  make  eight  where  you  know  it 's  only  four." 
For  the  second  time  he  sprung  the  bows  back  over  his  ears. 
"  And  when  they  find  out  their  beastly  mistake  —  why  — 
oh  —  it 's  too  late  then,  perhaps,  for  some  poor  devil ! " 

For  another  half  minute  Rankin  hesitated;  then  he 
reached  over  and  grasped  the  other  man  by  the  hand. 

"  Baker,"  he  said,  "  you  ain't  very  practical,  but  you  're 
dead  square."  And  he  shook  the  hand  again. 

Of  a  sudden  a  twinkle  came  into  the  Britisher's  eyes 
and  he  tore  himself  loose  with  an  effort. 

"  By  the  way,"  he  said,  "  I  'd  like  to  ask  a  question  for 
[50] 


The  Exotics 

future  guidance.  What  would  you  have  done  if  you'd 
been  in  my  place  ?  " 

Rankin  stiffened  in  his  seat,  and  a  color  almost  red 
surged  beneath  the  tan  of  his  cheeks ;  then,  as  suddenly  as 
his  companion  had  done,  he  smiled  outright. 

"I  reckon  I'd  have  done  just  what  you  did,1'  he  ad 
mitted  ;  and  the  two  men  laughed  together. 

"  Seriously,  though,"  said  Scotty,  after  a  moment,  "  and 
as  long  as  I  've  told  you  anyway,  what  ought  I  to  do  under 
the  circumstances  ?  Should  I  let  Blair  off,  do  you  think  ?  " 

For  a  moment  Rankin  did  not  answer ;  then  he  faced 
his  questioner  directly,  and  Scotty  knew  why  the  big  man's 
word  was  so  nearly  law  in  the  community. 

"  Under  the  circumstances,""  he  repeated,  •"  I  'd  let  him 
go ;  for  several  reasons.  First  of  all,  he 's  got  such  a  start 
of  you  now  that  you  could  n't  catch  him,  anyway  Then 
he 's  a  coward  by  nature,  and  it  '11  be  a  mighty  long  time 
before  he  ever  shows  up  here  again.  And  last  of  all,"  the 
speaker  hesitated,  "last  of  all,"  he  repeated  slowly, "  though 
I  don't  know,  I  believe  you  were  right  when  you  said  the 
boy  could  tell  more  about  it  than  the  rest  of  us ;  and  if 
what  we  suspect  is  true,  I  think  by  the  time  he  comes 
back,  if  he  ever  does  come,  Ben  will  be  old  enough  to  take 
care  of  him."  Again  the  speaker  paused,  and  his  great 
jowl  settled  down  into  his  shirt-front.  "  If  he  does  n't,  I 
can't  read  signs  when  I  see  'em." 

For  a  moment  the  room  was  silent ;  then  Scotty  sprang 
to  his  feet  as  if  a  load  had  been  taken  off  his  mind. 

"  All  right,"  said  he,  "  we  '11  forget  it.  And,  speaking 
of  forgetting,  I  've  nearly  got  myself  into  trouble  already. 

[51] 


Ben  Blair 

I  have  an  invitation  from  Mrs.  Baker  for  you  to  take 
dinner  with  us  to-day.  In  fact,  I  was  sent  on  purpose 
to  bring  you.  Not  a  word,  not  a  word !  "  he  continued, 
at  sight  of  objections  gathering  on  the  other's  face;  "a 
lady's  invitations  are  sacred,  you  know.  Get  your  coat ! " 

Rankin  arose  with  an  effort  and  stood  facing  his  visitor. 

"  You  know  I  'm  always  glad  to  visit  you,  Baker,"  he 
said.  "  I  was  n't  thinking  of  holding  off  on  my  own  ac 
count,  but  I  've  got  someone  else  to  consider  now,  you 
know.  Ben  —  " 

"  Certainly,  certainly  ! "  Scotty's  voice  was  eloquent  of 
comprehension.  "  Throw  the  kiddie  in  too.  He  can  play 
with  Flossie;  they're  about  of  an  age,  and  she'll  be 
tickled  to  death  to  have  him." 

Rankin  looked  at  his  friend  a  moment  peculiarly.  "  I 
know  Ben's  going  would  be  all  right  with  you,  Baker,"  he 
explained  at  last,  "  but  how  about  your  wife  ?  Consider 
ing —  everything  —  she  might  object." 

The  smile  left  the  Englishman's  face,  and  a  look  of 
perplexity  took  its  place. 

"  By  Jove !  "  he  said,  "  you  're  right !  I  never  thought  of 
that."  He  shifted  from  one  foot  to  the  other  uneasily.  "  But, 
pshaw  !  What 's  the  use  of  saying  anything  whatever  about 
the  boy's  connections  ?  He 's  nothing  but  a  youngster,  — 
and,  besides,  his  mother's  actions  are  no  fault  of  his." 

Rankin  took  his  top-coat  off  its  peg  deliberately. 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "I'll  call  Ben."  At  the  door 
he  paused,  looking  back,  the  peculiar  expression  again 
upon  his  face.  "As  you  say,  the  faults  of  Ben's  mother 
are  not  his  faults,  anyway." 

[52] 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE  SOIL  AND  THE  SEED 

WITHIN  the  Baker  home  three  persons,  a 
woman  and  two  men,  were  sitting  beside  a 
well-discussed  table  in  the  perfect  content  that 
follows  a  good  meal.  Strange  to  say,  in  this  frontier  land, 
the  men  had  cigars,  and  their  smoke  curled  slowly  toward 
the  ceiling.  Intermittently,  with  the  unconscious  attitude 
of  indifference  we  bestow  upon  happenings  remote  from 
our  lives,  they  were  discussing  the  month-old  news  of  the 
world,  which  the  messenger  from  town,  who  supplied  at 
stated  intervals  the  family  wants,  had  brought  the  day 
before. 

Out  of  doors,  in  the  warm  sunny  plat  south  of  the  barn, 
a  small  boy  and  a  still  smaller  girl  were  engaged  in  the 
fascinating  occupation  of  becoming  acquainted.  The  little 
girl  was  decidedly  taking  the  initiative. 

"  How 's  it  come  your  name  is  Blair  ?  "  she  asked,  open 
ing  fire  as  soon  as  they  were  alone. 

The  boy  pondered  the  question.  It  had  never  occurred 
to  him  before.  Why  should  he  be  called  Blair?  No 
adequate  reason  suggested  itself. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  admitted. 

The  little  girl  wrinkled  her  forehead  in  thought. 
[53] 


Ben  Blair 

"It's  funny,  isn't  it?"  she  said.  "Now,  my  papa's 
name  is  Baker,  and  my  name's  Florence  Baker.  You 
ought  to  be  Ben  Rankin  —  but  you  are  n't."  She  stroked 
a  diminutive  nose  with  a  fairy  forefinger.  "  It 's  funny," 
she  repeated. 

"  Oh  !  "  commented  Benjamin.  He  understood  now, 
but  explanations  were  not  a  part  of  his  philosophy. 
"Oh!"  and  the  subject  dropped. 

"  Let 's  play  duck  on  the  rock,"  suggested  Florence. 

The  boy's  hands  were  deep  in  the  recesses  of  his  pockets. 

"  I  don't  know  how." 

"  That  "s  nothing."  The  small  brunette  had  the  air  of 
one  to  whom  difficulties  were  unknown.  "  I  '11  show  you. 
Papa  and  I  play,  and  it 's  lots  of  fun  —  only  he  beats  me." 
She  looked  about  for  available  material. 

"  You  get  that  little  box  up  by  the  house,"  she  directed, 
"  and  we  '11  have  that  for  the  rock." 

Ben  did  as  ordered. 

"  Now  bring  two  tin  cans.  You  '11  find  a  pile  back  of 
the  barn." 

Once  more  the  boy  departed,  to  return  a  moment  later 
with  a  pair  of  "  selects,"  each  bearing  in  gaudy  illumina 
tion  a  composite  picture  of  the  ingredients  of  succotash. 

"  Now  watch  me,"  said  Florence. 

She  carried  the  box  about  a  rod  away  and  planted  it 
firmly  on  the  ground.  "  This  is  the  rock,"  she  explained. 
On  the  top  of  the  box  she  perched  one  of  the  cans,  open 
end  up.  "  And  this  is  the  duck  —  my  duck.  Do  you  see  ?* 

The  boy  had  watched  the  proceedings  carefully.  "  Yes,, 
I  see,"  he  said. 

[54] 


The  Soil  and  the  Seed 

Florence  came  back  to  the  barn.  "  Now  the  game  is  for 
you  to  take  this  other  can  and  knock  my  duck  off.  Then 
we  both  run,  and  if  you  get  your  can  on  the  box  ahead  of 
me,  I  'm  it,  and  I  '11  have  to  knock  off  your  duck.  Are 
you  ready  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  All  right.*"     And  the  sport  was  on. 

Ben  poised  his  missile  and  carefully  let  fly. 

"  He,  he ! "  tittered  Florence.     "  You  missed  I  * 

He  retrieved  his  duck  without  comment. 

"  Try  again  ;  you  've  got  three  chances." 

More  carefully  than  before  Ben  took  aim  and  tossed 
his  can. 

"  Missed  again  ! "  exulted  the  little  brunette.  "You  Ve 
only  one  more  try."  And  the  brown  eyes  flashed  with 
mischief. 

For  the  last  time  Ben  stood  at  position. 

"  Be  careful !  you  're  out  if  you  miss." 

Even  more  slowly  than  before  the  boy  took  aim,  swung 
his  arm  overhead  clear  from  the  shoulder,  and  threw  with 
all  his  might.  There  was  a  flash  of  gaudy  paper  through 
the  air,  a  resounding  impact  of  tin  against  wood,  and 
the  make-believe  duck  skipped  away  as  though  fearful  of 
danger. 

For  a  moment  Florence  stood  aghast,  but  only  for  a 
moment ;  then  she  stamped  a  tiny  foot  imperiously. 

"  Oh,  you  naughty  boy ! "  she  exclaimed.  "  You 
naughty,  naughty  boy  !  " 

Once  more  Ben's  hands  were  in  his  pockets.  "  Why  ?  w 
he  asked  innocently. 

[55] 


Ben  Blair 

**  Because  you  don't  play  right !  " 

"  You  told  me  to  knock  the  duck  off,  and  I  did! " 

"  But  not  that  way."  Florence's  small  chin  was  high  in 
the  air.  "  I  'm  going  in  the  house." 

Ben  made  no  motion  to  follow  her,  none  to  prevent 
her  going. 

"  I  'm  sorry,"  he  said  simply. 

The  little  girl  took  two  steps  decidedly,  a  third  halt 
ingly,  a  fourth,  then  stopped  and  looked  back  out  of  the 
corner  of  her  eye. 

"  Are  you  very  sorry  ?  "  she  asked. 

Ben  nodded  his  head  gravely. 

There  was  a  moment  of  indecision.  "  All  right,"  she 
said,  with  apparent  reluctance ;  "  but  we  won't  play  duck 
any  more.  We  11  play  drop  the  handkerchief." 

The  boy  discreetly  ignored  the  change  of  purpose. 

"  I  don't  know  how,"  he  admitted  once  more. 

Such  deplorable  ignorance  aroused  her  sympathy. 

"  Don't  Mr.  Rankin,  or — or  anyone  —  play  with  you  ?" 
she  asked. 

Ben  shook  his  head. 

"  All  right,  then,"  she  said  obligingly,  "  I  '11  show  you." 

With  her  heel  she  drew  upon  the  ground  a  rough  circle 
about  ten  feet  in  diameter. 

"  You  can't  cross  that  place  in  there,"  she  said. 

The  boy  looked  at  the  bare  ground  critically.  No  vis 
ible  barrier  presented  itself  to  his  vision. 

"Why  not?"  he  asked. 

Florence  made  a  gesture  of  disapproval.  "  Because  you 
can't,"  she  explained.  Then,  some  further  reason  seeming 

[  56  ] 


The  Soil  and  the  Seed 

necessary,  she  added,  "  Perhaps  there  are  red-hot  irons  or 
snakes,  or  something,  in  there.    Anyway,  you  can't  cross ! " 

Ben  made  no  comment,  and  his  instructor  looked  at  him 
a  moment  doubtfully. 

"  Now,"  she  went  on,  "  I  stand  right  here  close  to  the 
line,  and  you  take  the  handkerchief."  She  produced  a 
dainty  little  kerchief  with  a  "  B  "  embroidered  in  the  corner. 
"  Drop  it  behind  me,  and  get  in  my  place  if  you  can  be 
fore  I  touch  you.  If  you  get  clear  around  and  catch  me 
before  I  notice  you  —  you  can  kiss  me.  Do  you  see  ?  " 

Ben  could  see. 

"  All  right,  then."  And  the  little  girl  stood  at  atten 
tion,  very  prim,  apparently  very  watchful,  toes  touching 
the  line. 

The  nature  of  Benjamin  Blair  was  very  direct.  The 
first  time  he  passed,  he  dropped  the  handkerchief  and  pro 
ceeded  calmly  on  his  journey.  His  back  toward  her,  the 
little  girl  turned  and  gave  a  surreptitious  glance  behind ; 
then  quickly  shifted  to  her  original  position,  a  look  of  in 
nocence  upon  her  face.  Straight  ahead  went  Ben  around 
the  circle  —  that  contained  hot  irons,  or  snakes,  or  some 
thing  —  back  to  his  starting-point,  touched  the  small 
fragment  of  femininity  upon  the  shoulder  gingerly,  as 
though  afraid  she  would  fracture. 

"Here's  your  handkerchief,"  he  said,  stooping  to  re 
cover  the  bit  of  linen.  "  You  're  it" 

"  Oh,  dear ! "  she  said,  in  mock  despair  ;  "  you  dropped  it 
the  first  time,  did  n't  you  ?  " 

Ben  agreed  to  the  statement. 

An  unaccountable  lull  followed.     In  it  he  caught  a 
[57] 


Ben  Blair 

curious  sidelong  glance  from  the  brown  eyes  under  the 
drooping  lashes. 

"  I  3id  n't  suppose  you  'd  do  that  the  first  time,"  said   , 
the  little  girl.     "  Papa  never  does." 

The  observation  seemed  irrelevant  to  Ben  Blair,  at  least 
inadequate  to  halt  the  game ;  but  he  made  no  comment. 

Again  there  was  a  lull. 

"  Well,"  suggested  Florence,  and  a  tinge  of  red  surged 
beneath  the  soft  brown  skin. 

Ben  began  to  feel  uncomfortable.  He  had  a  premoni 
tion  that  all  was  not  well. 

"  You  Ye  it,  ain't  you  ?  "  he  hesitated  at  last. 

This  time,  full  and  fair,  the  tiny  woman  looked  at  him. 
The  color  which  before  had  stood  just  beneath  the  skin 
rose  burning  to  her  ears,  to  the  roots  of  her  hair.  Her 
big  brown  eyes  flashed  fire. 

"  Ben  Blair,"  she  flamed,  "  you  Ye  a  Yraid  cat ! "  Tears 
welled  up  into  her  voice,  into  her  eyes,  and  she  made  a 
motion  as  if  to  leave  ;  but  the  sudden  passion  of  a  spoiled 
child  was  too  strong  upon  her,  the  mystified  face  of  the 
other  too  near,  too  tempting.  With  a  motion  which  was 
all  but  in  voluntary,  a  tiny  brown  hand  shot  out  and  struck 
the  boy  fair  on  the  mouth.  "  A  Traid  cat,  'fraid  cat,  and 
I  hate  you ! " 

Never  before  in  his  short  life  had  Benjamin  Blair  met  a 
girl.  The  ethics  of  sex  was  a  thing  unknown  to  him,  but 
nevertheless  some  instinct  prevented  his  returning  the 
insult.  Except  for  the  red  mark  upon  his  lips,  his  face 
grew  very  white. 

"  What  am  I  afraid  of?  "  he  asked  steadily. 
[58] 


The  Soil  and  the  Seed 

Defiant  still,  the  girl  held  her  ground. 

"Afraid  of  what?"  she  jeered.  « You're  afraid  of 
everything !  'Fraid  cats  always  are ! " 

"  But  what  ? "  pressed  the  boy.  "  Tell  me  something 
I'm  afraid  of." 

Florence  glanced  about  her.  The  tall  roof  of  the  barn 
caught  her  vision. 

"You  wouldn't  dare  jump  off  the  roof  there,  for  one 
thing,"  she  ventured. 

Ben  looked  up.  The  point  mentioned  arose  at  least  six 
teen  feet,  and  the  earth  beneath  was  frozen  like  asphalt, 
but  he  did  not  hesitate.  At  the  north  end,  a  stack  of  hay 
piled  against  the  wall  formed  a  sort  of  inclined  plane,  and 
making  a  detour  he  began  to  climb.  Half-way  up  he  lost 
his  footing  and  came  tumbling  to  the  ground  ;  but  still  he 
said  nothing.  The  next  time  he  was  more  careful,  and 
reached  the  ridge-pole  without  accident.  Below,  the  little 
girl,  brilliant  in  her  red  jacket,  stood  watching  him  ;  but 
he  never  even  glanced  at  her.  Instead,  he  raised  himself 
to  his  full  height,  looked  once  at  the  ground  beneath,  and 
jumped. 

That  instant  a  wave  of  contrition  swept  over  Florence. 
In  a  sort  of  vision  she  saw  the  boy  lying  injured,  perhaps 
dead,  upon  the  frozen  ground,  —  and  all  through  her  fault ! 
She  shut  her  eyes,  and  clasped  her  hands  over  her  face. 

A  few  seconds  passed,  bringing  with  them  no  further 
sound,  and  she  slowly  opened  her  fingers.  Through  them, 
instead  of  a  prostrate  corpse,  she  saw  the  boy  standing 
erect  before  her.  There  was  a  smear  of  dust  upon  his  coat 
and  face  where  he  had  fallen,  and  a  scratch  upon  his  cheek, 

[59] 


Ben  Blair 

which  bled  a  bit,  but  otherwise  he  was  apparently  unhurt. 
From  beneath  his  long  lashes  as  she  looked,  the  blue  eyes 
met  hers,  deliberate  and  unsmiling. 

As  swiftly  as  it  had  come,  the  mood  of  contrition 
passed.  In  an  indefinite  sort  of  way  the  girl  experienced 
a  sensation  of  disappointment,  —  a  feeling  of  being  de 
prived  of  something  which  was  her  due.  She  was  only  a 
child,  a  spoiled  child,  and  her  defiance  arose  anew.  A 
moment  so  the  children  faced  each  other. 

"  Do  you  still  think  I  'm  afraid  ?  "  asked  the  boy  at  last. 

Again  the  hot  color  flamed  beneath  the  brown  skin. 

"Pooh!"  said  the  girl,  "that  was  nothing!"  She 
tossed  her  head  in  derision.  "  Anyone  could  do  that ! " 

Ben  slowly  took  off  his  cap,  slapped  it  against  his  knee 
to  shake  off  the  dust,  and  put  it  back  upon  his  head.  The 
action  took  only  a  half  minute,  but  when  the  girl  looked 
at  him  again  it  hardly  seemed  he  was  the  same  boy  with 
whom  she  had  just  played.  His  eyes  were  no  longer  blue, 
but  gray.  The  chin,  too,  with  an  odd  trick,  —  one  she 
was  destined  to  know  better  in  future,  —  had  protruded, 
had  become  the  dominant  feature  of  his  face,  aggressive, 
almost  menacing.  Except  for  the  size,  one  looking  could 
scarcely  have  believed  Ben's  visage  was  that  of  a  child. 

"What,"  the  boy's  hands  went  back  into  his  pockets, 
"  what  would  n't  anyone  do,  then  ?  "  he  asked  directly. 

At  that  moment  Florence  Baker  would  have  been  glad 
to  occupy  some  other  person's  shoes.  Obviously,  the 
proper  thing  for  her  to  do  was  to  admit  her  fault  and 
clear  the  atmosphere,  but  that  did  not  accord  with  her 
disposition,  and  she  looked  about  for  a  suggestion.  One 

[60] 


The  Soil  and  the  Seed 

came  promptly,  but  at  first  she  did  not  speak.  Then  the 
brown  head  tossed  again. 

"  Some  folks  would  be  afraid  to  ride  one  of  those  colts 
out  there  ! "  She  indicated  the  pasture  near  by.  "  Papa 
said  the  other  day  he  'd  rather  not  be  the  first  to  try." 

The  colts  mentioned  were  a  bunch  of  four-year-olds  that 
Scotty  had  just  imported  from  an  Eastern  breeder.  They 
were  absolutely  unbroken,  but  every  ounce  thoroughbreds, 
and  full  to  the  ear-tips  of  what  the  Englishman  expres 
sively  termed  "  ginger.1' 

To  her  credit  be  it  said,  the  small  Florence  had  no  idea 
that  her  challenge  would  be  accepted.  Implicit  trust  in 
her  father  was  one  of  her  virtues,  and  the  mere  suggestion 
that  another  would  attempt  to  do  what  he  would  not,  was 
rankest  heresy.  But  the  boy  Benjamin  started  for  the 
barn,  and,  securing  a  bridle  and  a  pan  of  oats,  moved 
toward  the  gate.  Instinctively  Florence  took  a  step  after 
him. 

"  Really,  I  did  n't  mean  for  you  to  try,"  she  explained  in 
swift  penitence.  "  I  don't  think  you  're  afraid !  " 

Ben  opened  and  closed  the  gate  silently. 

"Please  don't  do  it,"  pleaded  the  girl.  "You'll  be 
hurt!" 

But  for  all  the  effect  her  petition  had,  she  might  as  well 
have  asked  the  sun  to  cease  shining.  Nothing  could  stop 
that  gray-eyed  boy.  Without  a  show  of  haste  he  ad 
vanced  toward  the  nearest  colt,  shook  the  oats  in  the  pan, 
and  whistled  enticingly.  Full  often  in  his  short  life  he 
had  seen  the  trick  done  before,  and  he  waited  expectantly. 

Florence,  forgetting  her  fears,  watched  with  interest. 
[61] 


Ben  Blair 

At  first  the  colt  was  shy,  but  gradually,  under  stimulus  of 
its  appetite,  it  drew  nearer,  then  ran  frisking  away,  again 
drew  near.  Ben  held  out  the  pan,  shook  it  at  intervals, 
displaying  its  contents  to  the  best  advantage.  Colt  nature 
could  not  resist  the  appeal.  The  sleek  thoroughbred  cast 
aside  all  scruples,  came  close,  and  thrust  a  silken  muzzle 
deep  into  the  grain. 

Still  without  haste,  the  boy  put  on  the  bridle,  holding 
the  pan  near  the  ground  to  reach  the  straps  over  the  ears ; 
then,  pausing,  looked  at  the  back  far 'above  his  head. 
How  he  was  to  get  up  there  would  have  perplexed  an 
observer.  For  a  moment  it  puzzled  the  boy;  then  an 
idea  occurred  to  him.  Once  more  holding  the  remnants  of 
the  oats  near  the  ground,  he  waited  until  the  hungry  nose 
was  deep  amongst  them,  the  head  well  lowered ;  then,  im 
proving  his  opportunity,  he  swung  one  leg  over  the  sleek 
neck  and  awaited  developments. 

He  was  not  long  in  suspense.  The  action  was  like 
touching  flame  to  powder  ;  the  resulting  explosion  was  all 
but  simultaneous.  With  a  snort,  the  head  went  high  in 
air,  tossing  the  grain  about  like  seed,  and  down  the  in 
clined  plane  of  the  neck  thus  formed  the  long-legged  Ben 
jamin  slid  to  the  slippery  back.  Once  there,  an  instinct 
told  him  to  grip  the  rounding  flank  with  'his  ankles,  and 
clutch  the  heavy  mane. 

And  he  was  none  too  quick.  For  a  moment  the  colt 
paused  in  pure  wonder  at  the  audacity  of  the  thing ;  then, 
with  a  neigh,  half  of  anger  and  half  of  fear,  it  sprang 
away  at  top  speed,  circling  and  recircling,  flashing  in  and 
out  among  the  other  horses,  the  fragment  of  humanity  on 

[62] 


The  Soil  and  the  Seed 

its  back  meanwhile  clinging  to  his  place  like  a  monkey. 
For  a  minute,  then  another,  the  youngster  kept  his  seat, 
pulling  upon  the  reins  at  intervals,  gripping  together  his 
small  knees  until  the  muscles  ached.  Then  suddenly  the 
colt,  changing  its  tactics,  planted  its  front  feet  firmly  into 
the  ground,  stopped  short,  and  the  small  Benjamin  shot 
overhead,  to  strike  the  turf  beyond  with  an  impact  which 
fairly  drove  the  breath  from  his  body.  But  even  then, 
half  unconscious  as  he  was,  he  would  n't  let  loose  of  the 
reins.  Not  until  the  now  thoroughly  aroused  colt  had 
dragged  him  for  rods,  did  the  leather  break,  leaving  the 
boy  and  the  bridle  in  a  most  disreputable-looking  heap 
upon  the  earth. 

Florence  had  watched  the  scene  with  breathless  inter 
est.  While  Ben  was  making  his  mount,  she  observed  him 
doubtfully.  While  he  retained  his  seat,  she  clapped  her 
hands  in  glee.  Then,  with  his  downfall,  a  great  lump 
came  chokingly  into  her  throat,  and,  without  waiting  to 
see  the  outcome,  she  ran  sobbing  to  the  house.  A  mo 
ment  later  she  rushed  into  the  little  parlor  where  her 
father  and  Rankin,  their  cigars  finished,  were  sitting  and 
chatting. 

"  Papa,"  she  pleaded,  "  papa,  go  quick  !     Ben 's  killed !  " 

"  Great  Caesar's  ghost !  "  exclaimed  Scotty,  springing 
up  nervously,  and  holding  the  little  girl  at  arm's  length. 
"What's  the  matter?" 

"  Ben,  Ben,  I  told  you  !  He  tried  to  ride  one  of  the 
colts,  and  he  's  killed  — I  know  he  is  !  " 

"  Holy  buckets  ! "  Genuine  apprehension  was  in  the 
Englishman's  voice.  Without  waiting  for  further  expla- 

[63] 


Ben  Blair 

nation  he  shot  out  of  the  door,  and  ran  full  tilt  to  the 
paddock  behind  the  barn.  There  he  stopped,  and  Rankin 
coming  up  a  moment  later,  the  two  men  stood  side  by  side 
watching  the  approach  of  a  small  figure  still  some  rods 
away.  The  boy's  face  and  hands  were  marked  with  blood 
stains  from  numerous  scratches ;  one  leg  of  his  trousers 
was  torn  disclosing  the  skin,  and  upon  that  side  when  he 
walked  he  limped  noticeably.  All  these  things  the  two 
men  observed  at  a  distance.  When  he  came  closer,  they 
were  forgotten  in  the  look  upon  his  small  face.  The  odd 
trick  the  boy  had  of  throwing  his  lower  jaw  forward  was 
now  emphasized  until  the  lower  teeth  fairly  overshot  the 
upper.  In  sympathy,  the  eyes  had  tightened,  not  morosely 
or  cruelly,  but  with  a  fixed  determination  which  was  all  but 
uncanny.  Scotty  shifted  a  bit  uncomfortably. 

"  By  Jove !  "  he  remarked,  with  his  usual  unconscious 
expletive,  "  I  'd  rather  have  a  tiger-cat  on  my  trail  than 
that  youngster,  if  he  was  to  look  that  way.  What  do 
you  suppose  he 's  got  in  his  cranium  now  ?  " 

Rankin  shook  his  head.  "  I  don't  know.  He 's  be 
yond  me." 

Scarcely  a  minute  passed  before  the  boy  returned.  He 
had  another  bridle  in  his  hand  and  a  fresh  pan  of  oats. 
As  before,  he  started  to  pass  without  a  word,  but  Rankin 
halted  him.  "  What 's  the  matter  with  your  clothes, 
Ben  ?  "  he  queried. 

The  lad  looked  at  his  questioner.  "Horse  threw  me, 
sir." 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  now  ?  " 

"  Going  to  try  to  ride  him  again,  sir." 
[64] 


The  Soil  and  the  Seed 

Rankin  paused,  his  face  growing  momentarily  more 
severe. 

"  Ben,"  he  said  at  last,  "  did  Mr.  Baker  hire  you  to 
break  his  horses?  If  I  were  you  I'd  put  those  things 
away  and  ask  his  pardon." 

The  boy  looked  from  one  man  to  the  other  uncertainly. 
Obviously,  this  phase  of  the  matter  had  not  occurred  to 
him.  Obviously,  too,  the  point  of  view  must  be  correct, 
for  both  Rankin  and  Scotty  were  solemn  as  the  grave. 
The  lad  shot  out  toward  the  pasture  a  glance  that  spoke 
volumes ;  then  he  turned  to  Baker. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  said. 

Scotty  caught  his  cue.  "Granted  —  this  time,"  he 
answered. 

A  half-hour  later,  Rankin  and  Ben,  the  latter  carefully 
washed,  the  rents  in  his  trousers  temporarily  repaired, 
were  ready  to  go  home.  Not  until  the  very  last  moment 
did  Florence  appear;  then,  her  face  a  bit  flushed,  she 
came  out  to  the  buckboard. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  said  simply.  There  was  a  moment's 
pause;  then,  with  a  deepening  color,  she  turned  to  Ben 
Blair.  "  Come  again  soon,"  she  added  in  a  low  tone. 


[65] 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  SANITY  OF  THE  WILD 

SUMMER,  tan-colored,  musical  with  note  of  katy 
did  and  cicada,  and  the  constant  purr  of  the  south 
wind,  was  upon  the  prairie  country.  Under  the 
eternal  law  of  necessity,  —  the  necessity  of  sunburnt, 
stunted  grass,  —  the  boundaries  of  the  range  extended 
far  in  every  direction.  The  herds  bearing  the  [ll  brand 
no  longer  fed  in  one  body,  but  scattered  far  and  wide. 
Often  for  a  week  at  a  time  the  men  did"  not  sleep  under 
cover.  Morning  and  night,  when  a  semblance  of  dew  was 
upon  the  blighted  grass,  the  cattle  grazed.  The  life  was 
primitive  and  natural  almost  beyond  belief  in  a  world  of 
artificial  civilization ;  but  it  was  independent,  care-free, 
and  healthy. 

The  land  surrounding  the  ranch-house  was  now  almost 
as  bare  as  the  palm  of  a  hand.  Only  one  object  relieved 
the  impression  of  desolation,  and  that  was  a  tree.  It 
stood  carefully  fenced  about  in  the  drain  from  the  big 
artesian  well, — a  vivid  blot  of  green  against  the  dun 
background.  The  first  year  after  he  came,  Rankin  had 
imported  it,  —  a  goodly  sized  soft  maple ;  and  in  the 
pathway  of  constantly  trickling  water,  it  had  grown  and 
prospered.  It  was  the  only  tree  for  miles  and  miles 

[  66  ] 


The  Sanity  of  the  Wild 

about,  except  the  scrawny  scrub-oaks,  cotton-woods,  and 
wild  plums  that  flanked  the  infrequent  creeks,  —  creeks 
which  in  Summer,  save  in  deepest  holes,  reverted  to  mere 
dry  runs.  Beneath  its  shade  Rankin  had  constructed  a 
rough  bench,  and  therein  Ma  Graham,  day  after  day  when 
her  housework  was  finished,  dozed  and  sewed  and  dozed 
again,  apparently  as  forgetful  as  the  cowboys  upon  the 
prairies  that  beyond  her  vision  were  great  cities  where 
countless  thousands  of  human  beings  sweltered  and  strug 
gled  in  desperate  competition  for  daily  bread. 

So  much  for  the  day.  With  the  coming  of  dusk,  a 
coolness  like  a  benediction  took  the  place  of  heat.  The 
south  wind  gradually  died  down  with  the  descending  sun, 
until  immediately  following  the  setting  it  was  absolutely 
still ;  now  it  sprang  up  anew,  and  wandered  on  until  the 
break  of  day. 

Such  an  evening  in  late  July  found  Rankin  and  Baker 
stretched  out  like  boys  upon  a  pile  of  hay  in  the  latter's 
yard.  The  big  man  had  just  arrived;  the  old  buckboard, 
with  its  mouse-colored  mustangs,  stood  just  as  he  had 
driven  it  up.  Scotty  knew  him  well  enough  to  know  that 
he  had  come  for  a  purpose,  and  he  awaited  its  revelation. 
Rankin  slowly  filled  and  lit  his  pipe,  drew  thereon  until 
the  glow  from  the  bowl  was  reflected  upon  his  face,  and 
blew  a  great  cloud  of  smoke  out  into  the  gathering  dusk. 

"  Baker,"  he  asked  at  last,  "  what  are  we  going  to  do 
for  the  education  of  these  youngsters  of  ours  ?  We  can't 
let  them  grow  up  here  like  savages.11 

Scotty  rolled  over  on  his  side,  and  leaned  his  head  com 
fortably  in  his  hand. 

[67] 


Ben  Blair 

"  I  Ve  thought  of  that,"  he  answered,  "  and  there  seems 
to  me  only  one  of  two  things  to  do  —  either  move  into 
civilization,  or  import  a  pedagogue."  A  pause,  and  a 
whimsical  inflection  came  into  his  voice.  "  Unfortunately, 
however,  neither  plan  seems  exactly  practical  at  this  time." 

Rankin  smoked  a  minute  in  silence.  "  How  would  it  do 
to  move  into  civilization  six  months  of  the  year  —  the 
Winter  six?"  he  suggested. 

Scotty  considered  for  a  moment.  "  Do  you  mean  that 
seriously  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes." 

By  the  sense  of  feeling  alone,  the  Englishman  rolled  a 
cigarette  skilfully.  "  How  about  the  stock  here  while 
we  Ve  gone,"  he  said  hesitatingly.  "  Do  you  suppose  we  'd 
find  anything  left  when  we  came  back  in  the  Spring  ?  " 

Rankin  crowded  the  half-burned  tobacco  down  into  the 
pipe-bowl  with  his  little  finger.  "  I  don't  think  you  got 
the  idea,"  he  explained.  "My  plan  was  for  you  to  go 
East  in  the  Fall  and  put  the  kids  in  school.  I  'd  stay  here 
and  see  that  everything  ran  smoothly  while  you  were  gone. 
Mrs.  Baker  has  said  a  dozen  times  that  she  wanted  a 
change — for  a  time,  anyway." 

Scotty  threw  one  long  leg  over  the  other.  "  As  usual 
you  Ve  right,  Rankin,"  he  said  slowly.  "  The  Lord  knows 
Mollie  gets  restless  enough  at  times.  People  were  like 
ants  in  a  hill  where  she  was  raised,  and  that  life  was  a 
part  of  her0"  He  took  a  last  puff  at  the  cigarette,  and 
with  a  toss  sent  the  smoking  stump  spinning  like  a  firefly 
into  the  darkness.  "And  Flossie  can't  grow  up  wild  — 
I  know  that.  1 11  talk  your  suggestion  over  with  Mollie 

[68] 


The  Sanity  of  the  Wild 

first,  but  I  think  I  'd  be  safe  in  saying  right  now  that  we  11 
accept." 

For  a  moment  Rankin  did  not  speak  ;  then  he  knocked 
the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe  upon  his  heel. 

"  Excuse  me  if  I  keep  going  back  to  something  unpleas 
ant,  Baker,"  he  said  slowly,  "  but  in  considering  the  matter 
there's  one  thing  I  "don't  want  you  to  forget."  Then, 
after  a  meaning  pause,  he  went  on  :  "  It 's  the  same  reason 
I  had  for  not  introducing  Ben  in  the  first  place." 

Scotty  drew  out  his  book  of  rice-paper  again  almost  in 
voluntarily. 

"  I  'd  thought  of  that  this  time,"  he  said ;  then  paused 
to  finger  a  gauzy  sheet  absently.  "  I  don't  see  why  I 
should  consider  it  now,  though  —  seeing  I  did  n't  before." 

Rankin  said  nothing,  and  conversation  lapsed.  Irresisti 
bly,  but  so  gradually  as  to  be  all  but  unconscious,  the 
spirit  of  the  prairie  night  —  a  sensation,  a  conception  of 
infinite  vastness,  of  unassailable  serenity  —  stole  over 
and  took  possession  of  the  men.  The  ambitious  and 
manifold  artificial  needs  for  which  men  barter  their  hap 
piness,  their  sense  of  humanity,  even  life  itself,  seemed 
beyond  belief  out  there  alone  with  the  stars,  with  the 
prairie  night-wind  singing  in  the  ears ;  seemed  so  puny  that 
they  elicited  only  a  smile.  The  lust  of  show,  of  extrava 
gance,  follies,  wisdoms,  man's  loves  and  hates  —  how  their 
true  proportions  stand  revealed  against  the  eternal  back 
ground  of  immeasurable  distance,  in  nature's  vast  scheme  ! 

Scotty  cleared  his  throat.  "I  used  to  think,  when  I 
first  came  here,  that  I  'd  been  a  fool ;  but  now,  somehow, 
at  times  like  this,  I  wonder  if  I  did  n't  blunder  into  the 

[69] 


Ben  Blair 

wisest  act  of  my  life."  The  prairie  spirit  had  taken  hold 
of  him.  "  And  the  longer  I  stay  the  more  it  grows  upon 
rne  that  such  a  life  as  this,  where  one's  success  is  not  the 
measure  of  another's  failure,  is  the  only  one  to  live.  It  is 
the  only  life,"  he  added  after  a  pause. 

Rankin  said  nothing. 

Scotty  was  silent  for  a  moment,  but  the  mood  was  too 
strong  for  him  to  remain  so,  and  he  went  on. 

"  I  know  the  ordinary  person  would  laugh  if  I  said  it, 
but  really,  I  believe  I  'm  developing  a  distaste  for  money. 
It 's  simply  another  term  for  caste  ;  and  that  word,  with 
the  unreasoning  superiority  it  implies,  has  somehow  be 
come  hateful  to  me."  He  looked  up  into  the  night. 

"  I  used  to  think  I  was  happy  back  in  England.  I  had 
my  home  and  my  associates ;  born  so,  because  their  fathers 
were  friends  of  my  father,  their  grandfathers  of  my  grand 
father's  class.  As  a  small  landlord  I  had  my  gentlemanly 
leisure ;  but  as  well  as  I  know  my  name,  I  realize  now  that 
I  could  never  return  to  that  life  again.  Looking  back,  I 
see  its  intolerable  narrowness,  its  petty  smugness.  By 
comparison  it's  like  the  relative  clearness  of  the  atmos 
phere  there  and  here.  There,  perhaps  I  could  see  a  few 
miles :  here,  I  look  away  over  leagues  and  leagues  of  dis 
tance.  It 's  symbolic.1"  The  voice  paused ;  the  face, 
turned  directly  toward  his  companion's,  tried  in  the  half- 
darkness  to  read  its  expression.  "  I  've  been  in  this  prairie 
country  long  enough  now  to  realize  that  financially  I've 
made  a  mistake.  I  can  earn  a  living,  and  that 's  all ;  but 
nevertheless  I  'm  happy  —  happier  than  I  ever  realized  it 
was  possible  for  me  to  be.  I  've  got  enough  —  more  would 

[70] 


The  Sanity  of  the  Wild 

be  a  burden  to  me.  If  I  have  a  trouble  in  the  world,  it 's 
because  I  see  the  inevitable  prospect  of  money  in  the  future, 
—  money  I  don't  want,  for  I  'm  an  only  son  and  my  father 
is  comparatively  wealthy.  Without  turning  his  hand,  his 
rent-roll  is  five  thousand  pounds  a  year.  He's  getting 
along  in  life.  Some  day  —  it  may  be  five  years,  it  may  be 
fifteen  —  he  will  die  and  leave  it  to  me.  I  am  to  main 
tain  and  pass  on  the  family  name,  the  family  dignity.  It 
was  all  cut  and  dried  generations  back,  generations  before 
I  was  born." 

Still  Rankin  said  nothing.  For  any  indication  he  gave, 
the  other's  revelation  might  have  been  only  that  he  had  a 
hundred  dollars  deposited  in  the  savings  bank  against  a 
rainy  day. 

But  Scotty  was  now  fairly  under  headway.  He  stripped 
his  reserve  and  confidence  bare. 

"  You  see  now  why  I  'm  glad  to  consider  your  proposi 
tion.  Whatever  I  believe  myself  must  be  of  secondary 
importance.  I  Ve  others  to  think  about  —  Florence  and 
her  mother.  Flossie  is  only  a  child,  but  Mollie  is  a  wo 
man,  and  has  lived  her  life  in  sight  of  the  brazen  calf.  She 
does  n't  realize,  she  never  can  realize,  that  it  is  of  brass  and 
not  of  gold.  Personally,  I  believe,  as  I  believe  in  my  own 
existence,  that  Flossie  would  be  immeasurably  happier  if 
she  never  saw  the  other  side  of  life,  —  the  artificial  side,  — 
but  lived  right  here,  knowing  what  we  taught  her  and 
developing  like  a  healthy  animal ;  perhaps,  when  the  time 
came,  marrying  a  rancher,  having  her  own  home,  her  own 
family  interests,  and  living  close  to  nature.  But  it  can't  be. 
I've  got  to  develop  her,  cultivate  her,  fit  her  for  any 

[  71  ] 


Ben  Blair 

society."  The  voice  paused,  and  the  speaker  turned  his 
face  away. 

"  God  knows,  —  and  He  knows  also  that  I  love  her 
dearly,  —  that  looking  into  the  future  I  wish  sometimes 
she  were  the  daughter  of  another  man.11 

The  minutes  passed.  The  ponies  shifted  restlessly  and 
then  were  still.  In  the  lull,  the  soft  night-breeze  crooned 
its  minor  song,  while  near  or  far  away  —  no  human  ear 
could  measure  the  distance  —  a  prairie  owl  gave  its  weird 
cry.  Then  silence  fell  as  before. 

Once  more  Scotty  turned,  facing  his  companion. 

"  I  Ve  a  question  to  ask  you,  Rankin  ;  may  I  ask  it  with 
out  offence  ?  " 

The  big  man  nodded.  By  the  starlight  Baker  caught 
the  motion. 

"  You  told  me  once  that  you  were  a  college  man,  and 
that  you  had  a  Master's  degree.  From  the  very  first  you 
started  cattle-raising  on  a  big  scale.  You  must  have  had 
money.  Still,  such  being  the  case,  you  left  culture  and 
civilization  far  behind  and  came  here  to  choose  a  life  abso 
lutely  different.  I  have  told  you  why  I  wish  to  educate 
my  daughter.  But  why,  feeling  as  you  must  have  felt  and 
must  still  feel,  since  you  're  here,  why  do  you  wish  to  edu 
cate  this  waif  boy  you  Ve  picked  up  ?  By  all  the  stand 
ards  of  convention,  he  is  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  social 
scale.  Why  do  you  want  to  do  this  ?  " 

It  was  a  psychological  moment.  Even  in  the  semi- 
darkness,  Rankin  felt  the  other's  eyes  fixed  piercingly  upon 
him.  He  passed  his  hand  over  his  face;  he  seemed  about 
to  speak.  But  the  habit  of  reticence  was  too  strong 

[  72  ] 


The  Sanity  of  the  Wild 

upon  him.  Even  the  inspiration  of  the  Englishman's 
confidence  was  not  sufficient  to  break  the  seal  of  his  own 
reserve.  He  arose  slowly  and  shook  the  clinging  wisps  of 
hay  from  his  clothes. 

"For  somewhat  the  same  reason  as  your  own,"  he 
answered  at  last.  "  Ben,  like  Flossie,  is  a  child,  an  odd 
old  child  to  be  sure,  but  nevertheless  a  child.  I  have  no 
reason  to  know  that  when  he  grows  up  his  beliefs  will  be 
my  beliefs.  He  must  see  both  sides  of  the  coin,  and  judge 
for  himself." 

The  speaker  paused,  then  walked  slowly  over  to  the 
old  buckboard.  "  It 's  getting  late,  and  I  Ve  got  a  long 
drive  home."  With  an  effort  he  mounted  into  the  seat 
and  picked  up  the  reins.  "  Good-night." 

Scotty  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  said,  "Good 
night" 


[?3J 


CHAPTER  VTII 

THE  GLITTER  OF  THE  UNKNOWN 

TWELVE  years  slipped  by.  Short  as  they  seemed 
to  those  actually  living  them,  they  had  brought 
great  material  changes.  No  longer  did  the 
ranch  cattle  graze  at  the  will  of  their  owners,  but,  under 
stress  of  competition,  they  browsed  within  the  confines 
of  miles  upon  miles  of  galvanized  fencing.  Neighbors,  as 
Rankin  said,  were  near  now.  There  were  four  within  a 
radius  of  twenty  miles.  To  be  sure,  there  was  still  plenty 
of  land  west  of  them,  beyond  the  broad  muddy  Missouri, 
—  open  rough  land,  gradually  rising  in  elevation,  where  a 
traveller  could  journey  for  days  and  days  without  seeing  a 
human  face.  But  this  was  not  then  a  part  of  the  so-called 
"  cattle  ranges."  In  the  parlance  of  the  country,  that  was 
"  West," —  a  place  to  hunt  in,  a  refuge  for  criminals,  but 
as  yet  giving  no  indication  of  ever  becoming  of  prac 
tical  use. 

The  [R^  Ranch  had  evolved  along  with  the  others,  and 
always  well  in  advance.  The  house  now  boasted  six  rooms  ; 
the  barn  and  stock -sheds  had  at  a  distance  the  appearance 
of  a  town  in  themselves ;  the  collection  of  haying  imple 
ments  —  mowers,  loaders,  stackers  —  was  almost  complete 
enough  to  stock  a  jobbing  house.  The  herd  itself  had 

[74] 


The  Glitter  of  the  Unknown 

augmented,  despite  its  annual  reduction,  until  one  artesian 
well  was  inadequate  to  supply  water ;  and  fifteen  miles 
north,  at  the  extreme  limit  of  his  home-ranch,  Rankin  had 
sunk  another  well,  making  a  sort  of  sub-station  of  that 
point.  From  it  an  observer  with  good  eyes  could  see  the 
outlines  of  the  modern  Big  B  Ranch  property,  built  on  the 
old  site,  and  ostensibly  operated  by  a  long-legged  Yankee, 
Rob  Hoyt  by  name,  but  in  reality  owned,  as  had  been  the 
remnant  of  stock  Tom  Blair  left  behind  him,  by  saloon 
keeper  Mick  Kennedy. 

The  ranch  force  had  changed  very  little.  Rankin, 
stouter  by  a  quarter-hundred  weight,  shaggier  of  eyebrows 
and  with  an  accentuated  droop  in  the  upper  eyelids,  and  if 
possible  an  increased  taciturnity,  still  lived  his  daytime 
life  mainly  on  wheels.  The  old  buckboard  had  finally  suc 
cumbed,  but  its  counterpart,  mud-spattered  and  weather- 
bleached,  had  taken  its  place.  In  the  kitchen,  Ma  Graham 
still  presided,  her  accumulated  avoirdupois  seeming  to  have 
been  gathered  at  the  expense  of  her  lord,  who  in  equal  ratio 
thinner  and  more  weazened,  danced  attendance  as  of  old. 
Only  one  of  the  former  cowboys  now  remained.  That  one, 
strange  to  say,  was  Grannis,  the  "  man  from  nowhere,"  who 
had  apparently  taken  root  at  last.  Regularly  on  the  last 
day  of  each  month  he  drew  his  pay,  and  without  a  word  of 
explanation  or  comment  disappeared  upon  the  back  of  a 
cow-pony,  to  reappear,  perhaps,  in  ten  hours,  perhaps  in 
sixty,  dead  broke,  with  a  thirst  seemingly  unappeasable, 
but  quite  non-committal  concerning  his  experience,  appar 
ently  satisfied  and  ready  to  take  up  the  dull  routine  of  his 
life  again. 

[75] 


Ben  Blair 

Last  of  all,  Benjamin  Blair.  Precisely  as  the  boy  had 
given  promise,  the  youth  had  developed.  He  was  now  ma 
ture  in  size,  in  poise,  in  action.  Long  of  leg,  long  of  arm, 
long  of  face,  he  stood  a  half  head  above  Rankin,  who  had 
been  the  tallest  man  upon  the  place.  Yet  he  was  not  awk 
ward.  Physically  he  was  of  the  type,  but  magnified,  to 
which  all  cowboys  belong ;  and  no  one  would  ever  call  him 
awkward  or  uncouth. 

There  had  been  less  change  upon  the  Baker  ranch. 
Scotty  was  not  an  expansionist.  Scarcely  a  score  more 
horses  grazed  in  his  paddock  than  of  old.  The  barn, 
though  often  repaired,  was  still  of  sod  and  thatch.  The 
house  contained  the  original  number  of  rooms.  The  ex 
periment  with  trees  had  never  been  repeated.  If  possible, 
the  man  himself  had  altered  even  less  than  his  surround 
ings.  Scrupulously  fresh-shaven  each  day,  fortified  beyond 
the  compound  lenses  of  his  spectacles,  a  stranger  would 
have  guessed  him  anywhere  from  thirty-five  to  fifty. 

Time  had  not  dealt  as  kindly  with  Mrs.  Baker.  She 
seemed  to  have  aged  enough  for  both  herself  and  her  hus 
band.  Notwithstanding  the  fact  that  for  the  first  eight 
years  of  the  twelve,  the  family  had  spent  half  their  time  in 
the  East,  she  had  grown  careless  of  her  appearance.  True 
to  his  instincts,  Scotty  still  dressed  for  dinner  in  his  anti 
quated  evening  clothes ;  but  pathetic  as  was  the  example, 
it  had  long  ceased  to  stimulate  her.  The  last  four 
years  had  been  dead  years  with  Mollie  Baker.  The  future 
held  but  one  promise.  She  referred  to  it  daily,  almost 
hourly ;  and  at  such  times  only  would  a  trace  of  youth  and 
beauty  return  to  the  one-time  winsome  face.  She  looked 

[76] 


The  Glitter  of  the  Unknown 

forward  and  dreamed  of  an  event  after  which  she  would  do 
certain  things  upon  which  she  had  set  her  heart ;  when,  as 
she  said,  she  would  begin  to  live.  It  seemed  to  Scotty 
ghastly  to  speak  about  that  event,  for  it  was  the  death  of 
his  father. 

The  last  member  of  the  family  had  developed  with  the 
child's  promise,  and  at  seventeen  Florence  was  beautiful ; 
not  with  a  conventional  prettiness,  but  with  a  vital  feminine 
attraction.  All  that  the  mother  had  been,  with  her  dark, 
oval  face,  her  mass  of  walnut-brown  hair,  her  great  dark 
eyes,  her  uptilted  chin,  the  daughter  was  now ;  but  with 
added  health  and  an  augmented  femininity  that  the  mother 
had  never  known.  Moreover,  she  had  an  independence,  a 
dominance,  born  perhaps  of  the  wild  prairie  influence,  that 
at  times  made  her  parents  almost  gasp.  Except  in  the 
minute  details  of  their  daily  existence,  which  habit  had 
made  unchangeable,  she  ruled  them  absolutely.  Even 
Rankin  had  become  a  secondary  factor.  Scotty  probably 
would  have  denied  the  assertion  emphatically,  yet  at 
the  bottom  of  his  consciousness  he  realized  that  had 
she  told  him  to  sell  everything  he  possessed  for  what 
he  could  get  and  return  to  old  Sussex  he  would  have 
complied.  Considering  Mollie's  daily  plaint,  it  was  a 
constant  source  of  wonder  to  him  that  the  girl  did  not 
do  this ;  but  she  seemed  wholly  satisfied  with  things  as 
they  were.  For  exercise  and  excitement  she  rode  almost 
every  horse  upon  the  place  —  rode  astride  like  a  man.  For 
amusement  she  read  everything  she  could  lay  hands  upon, 
both  from  the  modest  Baker  library  and  from  the  larger 
and  more  creditable  collection  which  Rankin  had  imported 

[77] 


Ben  Blair 

from  the  East.  This  was  the  first  real  library  that  had 
ever  entered  the  State,  and,  subject  for  speculation,  it  had 
uniformly  the  front  fly-leaves  remaining  as  mere  stubs,  as 
though  the  pages  had  been  torn  out  by  a  hurried  hand. 
What  name  was  it  that  had  been  in  those  hundreds  of 
volumes?  For  what  reason  had  it  been  so  carefully  re 
moved  ?  The  girl  had  often  speculated  thereon,  and  fitted 
theory  after  theory ;  but  never  yet,  wilful  as  she  was,  had 
she  had  the  temerity  to  ask  the  only  person  who  could 
have  given  explanation,  —  Rankin  himself. 

In  common  with  her  sisters  everywhere,  Florence  had  an 
instinctive  love  of  a  fad.  Realizing  this  fact,  Scotty  was 
riot  in  the  least  deceived  when,  during  a  lull  at  the  dinner- 
table  one  evening  late  in  the  Fall,  she  broke  in  with  an 
irrelevant  though  seemingly  innocent  remark. 

"  I  saw  several  big  jack-rabbits  when  I  was  out  riding 
this  morning."  The  dark  eyes  turned  upon  her  father  quiz 
zically,  humorously.  "  They  seem  to  be  very  plentiful." 

"  Yes,"  said  Scotty  ;  "  they  always  are  in  the  Fall." 

Florence  ate  for  a  moment  in  silence. 

"  Did  you  ever  think  how  much  sport  we  could  have  if 
we  owned  a  couple  of  hounds  ?  "  she  asked. 

Scotty  was  silent ;  but  Mollie  threw  up  her  hands  in 
horror.  "You  don't  really  mean  that  you  want  any  of 
those  hungry-looking  dogs  around,  do  you,  Flossie  ?  "  she 
protested  pettishly.  "  Seems  as  though  you  'd  be  satisfied 
with  riding  the  horses  tomboy  style  without  going  to 
hunting  rabbits  that  way." 

The  daughter's  color  heightened  and  the  matter 
dropped;  but  Scotty  knew  the  main  attack  was  yet  to 

[78] 


The  Glitter  of  the  Unknown 

come.  He  had  learned  from  experience  the  methods  of 
his  daughter  in  attaining  an  object. 

Later  in  the  evening  father  and  daughter  were  alone 
beside  a  well-shaded  lamp  in  the  cosey  sitting-room.  Mollie 
had  retired  early,  complaining  of  a  headache,  and  carrying 
with  her  an  air  of  martyrdom  even  more  pronounced  than 
usual ;  so  noticeable,  in  fact,  that,  absently  watching  the 
door  through  which  she  had  left,  an  expression  of  positive 
gloom  formed  over  Scotty 's  thin  face.  Two  strong  young 
arms  fell  suddenly  about  his  neck  and  abruptly  changed  his 
thoughts.  A  soft  warm  cheek  was  laid  against  his  own. 

"  Poor  old  daddy  ! "  whispered  a  caressing  voice. 

For  a  moment  Scotty  did  not  move ;  then,  turning,  he 
looked  into  the  brown  eyes.  "  Why  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Because,"  —  her  voice  was  low,  her  answering  look  was 
steady, — "because  it  won't  be  but  a  little  while  until  he'll 
have  to  move  away  —  move  back  into  civilization." 

For  a  moment  neither  spoke ;  then,  with  a  last  pressure 
of  her  cheek  against  her  father's,  the  girl  crossed  the  room 
and  took  another  chair.  Scotty  followed  her  with  his 
eyes. 

"Are  you  against  me,  too,  little  girl?"  he  asked. 

Florence  reached  over  to  the  table,  took  up  an  ever- 
ready  strip  of  rice-paper,  and,  rolling  a  cigarette,  tendered 
it  with  the  air  of  a  peace-offering. 

"  No,  I  'm  not  against  you ;  but  it 's  got  to  come. 
Mamma  simply  can't  change.  She  can't  find  anything 
here  to  interest  her,  and  we  've  got  to  take  her  away  — 
for  good." 

Scotty  slowly  struck  a  sulphur  match,  waited  until  the 
[79] 


Ben  Blair 

flame  had  burned  well  along  the  wood,  then  deliberately 
lit  his  cigarette  and  burned  it  to  a  stump. 

"  Are  n't  you  happy  here,  Flossie  ?  "  he  asked  gently. 

The  girl's  hands  were  folded  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  looked 
past  him  absently. 

"  Really,  for  once  in  my  life,"  she  answered  seriously, 
"I  spoke  quite  unselfishly.  I  was  thinking  only  of 
mamma."  There  was  a  pause,  and  a  deeper  concentra 
tion  in  the  brown  eyes.  "  As  for  myself,  I  hardly  know. 
Yes,  I  do  know.  I'm  happy  now,  but  I  wouldn't  be 
long.  The  life  here  is  too  narrow  ;  I  'd  lose  interest  in  it. 
At  last  I'd  have  a  frantic  desire,  one  I  couldn't  resist, 
to  peep  just  over  the  edge  of  the  horizon  and  take  part 
in  whatever  is  going  on  beyond."  She  smiled.  "  I 
might  run  away,  or  marry  an  Indian,  or  do  something 
shocking ! " 

Scotty  flicked  off  a  bit  of  ashes  with  his  little  finger. 

"  Can't  you  think  of  anything  that  would  interest  you 
and  broaden  your  life  enough  to  make  it  pleasant  ? "  he 
ventured. 

This  time  mirth  shone  upon  the  girl's  face,  and  a  laugh 
sounded  in  her  voice. 

"  Papa,  papa,"  she  said,  "  I  did  n't  think  that  of  you  ! 
Are  you  so  anxious  to  get  rid  of  your  daughter  ? "  As 
swiftly  as  it  had  come,  the  smile  vanished,  leaving  in  its 
place  a  softer  and  warmer  color. 

"  I  'm  not  enough  of  a  hypocrite,"  she  added  slowly,  "  to 
pretend  not  to  understand  what  you  mean.  Yes,  I  believe 
if  there  is  a  man  in  the  world  I  could  care  enough  for  to 
marry,  I  could  live  here  or  anywhere  with  him  and  be  per- 

[80] 


The  Glitter  of  the  Unknown 

fectly  happy  ;  but  that  is  n't  possible.  I  'm  of  the  wrong 
disposition."  The  soft  color  in  the  cheek  grew  warmer, 
the  brown  eyes  sparkled.  "  I  know  myself  well  enough  to 
realize  that  any  man  I  could  care  for  wouldn't  live  out 
here.  He  'd  be  one  who  did  things,  and  did  them  better 
than  others ;  and  to  do  things  he  'd  have  to  be  where 
others  are.  No,  I  never  could  live  here." 

Scotty  dropped  the  dead  cigarette  stump  into  an  ash 
tray,  and  brushed  a  stray  speck  of  dust  from  his  sleeve. 

"  In  other  words,  you  could  never  care  for  such  a  man 
as  your  father,"  he  remarked  quietly. 

The  girl  instantly  realized  what  she  had  said,  and 
springing  up  she  threw  her  arms  impulsively  about  her 
father's  neck. 

"Dear  old  daddy!"  she  said.  "There  isn't  another 
man  in  the  world  like  you  !  I  love  you  dearly,  dearly  !  " 
The  soft  lips  touched  his  cheek  again  and  again.  But 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  Florence  could  remember, 
her  father  did  not  respond.  Instead,  he  gently  freed  him 
self. 

"  Nevertheless,"  he  said,  steadily,  "  the  fact  remains.  You 
could  never  marry  a  man  like  your  father,  —  one  who  had 
no  desire  to  be  known  of  men,  but  who  simply  loved  you 
and  would  do  anything  in  his  power  to  make  you  happy. 
You  have  said  it."  Scotty  rose  slowly,  the  youthfulness 
of  his  movements  gone,  the  expression  of  age  unconsciously 
creeping  into  the  wrinkles  at  his  temples  and  at  the  cor 
ners  of  his  mouth.  "  You  have  hurt  me,  Florence." 

The  girl  was   at  once   repentant,   but  her  repentance 
came  too  late.     She  dropped  her  face  into  her  hands. 
6  [  81  ] 


Ben  Blair 

66  Oh,  daddy,  daddy ! "  she  pleaded,  but  could  not  say 
another  word.  Indeed,  there  was  nothing  to  be  said. 

Scotty  moved  silently  about  the  room,  closed  a  book  he 
had  laid  face  downward  upon  the  table,  picked  up  a  paper 
which  had  fallen  to  the  floor,  and  wound  the  clock  for  the 
night.  At  the  doorway  to  his  sleeping-room  he  paused. 

"  You  said  something  at  dinner  to-night  about  wanting 
some  hounds,  Florence.  I  know  where  I  can  buy  a  pair, 
and  1 11  see  that  you  have  them."  He  opened  the  door 
slowly,  then  quietly  closed  it.  "  And  about  our  leaving 
here.  I  have  always  expected  to  go  sometime,  but  I  hoped 
it  wouldn't  be  necessary  for  a  while  yet."  He  paused, 
fingering  the  knob  absently.  "  I  'm  ready,  though,  when 
ever  you  and  your  mother  wish." 

This  time  the  door  closed  behind  him,  and,  alone  within 
the  room,  the  girl  sobbed  as  though  her  heart  would 
break. 


[82] 


CHAPTER  IX 

A  RIFFLE  OF  PRAIRIE 

FLORENCE  got  her  dogs  promptly.  They  were 
two  big  mouse-colored  greyhounds,  with  tails 
like  rats  and  protruding  ribs.  They  were  named 
"  Racer "  and  "  Pacer,"  and  were  warranted  by  their  late 
owner  to  out-distance  any  rabbit  that  ever  drew  breath. 
The  girl  felt  that  an  event  as  important  as  a  coursing 
should  be  the  occasion  of  a  gathering  of  the  neighboring 
ranchers ;  but  at  the  mere  suggestion  her  conventional 
mother  threw  up  her  hands  in  horror.  It  was  bad  enough 
for  her  daughter  to  go  out  alone,  but  as  the  one  woman 
among  all  that  lot  of  cowboys  —  it  was  too  much  for  her 
to  endure.  Finally,  as  a  compromise,  Florence  agreed  to 
invite  only  the  people  of  the  [R^  Ranch  to  the  first  event. 
So  the  invitations  for  a  certain  day,  composed  with  fitting 
formality,  were  sent,  and  in  due  time  were  ceremoniously 
accepted. 

The  chase  was  scheduled  to  begin  soon  after  daybreak, 
and  before  that  time  Rankin  and  Ben  Blair  were  at  the 
Baker  house.  They  wore  their  ordinary  clothes  of  wool 
and  leather,  but  Scotty  appeared  in  a  wonderful  red  hunt 
ing-coat,  which,  though  a  bit  moth-eaten  in  spots,  never 
theless  showed  glaringly  against  the  brown  earth  of  the 
ranch-house  yard. 


Ben  Blair 

With  the  exception  of  the  dogs,  which  were  kept  prop 
erly  hungry  for  the  hunt,  and  Mollie,  who  had  washed  her 
hands  of  the  whole  affair,  the  party  all  had  breakfast, 
Scotty  himself  serving  the  coffee  with  the  skill  of  a  head- 
waiter.  Then  the  old  buckboard,  carefully  oiled  and 
tightened  for  the  occasion,  was  gotten  out,  a  team  of  the 
fastest,  wiriest  mustangs  the  [ll  possessed  was  attached,  and 
Rankin  and  Baker  upon  the  seat,  Florence  and  Ben,  well- 
mounted,  trailing  behind,  the  party  sallied  forth.  In  order 
to  avoid  fences  they  had  agreed  to  go  ten  miles  to  the 
south  before  beginning  operations.  There  a  great  tract  of 
government  land,  well  grazed  but  untouched  by  the  hand 
of  man,  gave  all  but  unlimited  room. 

The  morning  was  beautiful  and  clear  beyond  the  com 
prehension  of  city  dwellers,  a  typical  day  of  prairie  Dakota 
in  late  Fall.  Far  out  over  the  broad  expanse,  indefinite  as 
to  distance,  the  rising  sun  seemed  resting  upon  the  very 
rim  of  the  world.  All  about,  near  at  hand,  stretching 
into  the  horizon,  glistening,  sparkling,  innumerable  frost 
crystals,  product  of  the  past  night,  gleamed  like  scattered 
gems,  showing  in  their  coloring  every  blended  shade  of  the 
rainbow.  The  glory  of  it  all  appealed  to  the  girl,  and 
throwing  back  her  head  she  drew  in  deep  breaths  of  the 
tonic  air. 

"  I  'm  going  to  miss  these  mornings  terribly  when  I  'm 
gone,1'  she  said  soberly. 

Ben  Blair  scrutinized  the  backs  of  the  two  men  in  the 
buckboard  with  apparent  interest. 

"I  didn't  know  you  intended  leaving,"  he  said.  "Where 
are  you  going  ?  " 

[84] 


A  Riffle  of  Prairie 

Florence  regarded  her  companion  from  the  corner  of 
her  eye. 

"  I  'm  going  away  for  good,""  she  said. 

Ben  shifted  half  around  in  the  saddle  and  folded  back 
the  rim  of  his  big  sombrero. 

"  For  good,  you  say  ?  " 

The  girl's  brown  eyes  were  cast  down  demurely.  "  Yes, 
for  good,"  she  repeated. 

They  had  been  losing  ground.  Now  in  silence  they 
galloped  ahead,  the  regular  muffled  patter  of  their  horses' 
feet  upon  the  frozen  sod  sounding  like  the  distant  rattle 
of  a  snare-drum.  Once  again  even  with  the  buckboard, 
they  lapsed  into  a  walk. 

"You  haven't  told  me  where  you're  going,"  repeated 
Blair. 

The  question  seemed  to  be  of  purest  politeness,  as  a  host 
inquires  if  his  visitor  has  rested  well ;  yet  for  a  dozen  years 
they  two  had  lived  nearest  neighbors,  and  had  grown  to 
maturity  side  by  side.  She  concluded  there  were  some 
phases  of  this  silent  youth  which  she  had  not  yet  learned. 

"We  haven't  decided  where  we're  going  yet,"  she  re 
plied.  "  Mamma  wants  to  go  to  England,  but  papa  and 
I  refuse  to  leave  this  country.  Then  daddy  wants  to  live 
in  a  small  town,  and  I  vote  for  a  big  one.  Just  now  we  're 
at  deadlock." 

A  smile  started  in  Ben's  blue  eyes  and  spread  over  his 
thin  face. 

"  From  the  way  you  talk,"  he  said,  "  I  have  a  suspicion 
the  deadlock  won't  last  long.  If  I  stretch  my  imagination 
a  little  I  can  guess  pretty  close  to  the  decision." 

[  85  1 


Ben  Blair 

Florence  was  sober  a  moment ;  then  a  smile  flashed  over 
her  face  and  left  the  daintiest  of  dimples  in  either  cheek. 

"  Maybe  you  can,"  she  said. 

For  the  second  time  they  galloped  ahead  and  caught 
up  with  the  slower  buckboard. 

"  Florence,"  Ben  threw  one  leg  over  the  pommel  of  his 
saddle  and  faced  his  companion  squarely,  "  I  've  heard 
your  mother  talk,  and  of  course  I  understand  why  she 
wants  to  go  back  among  her  folks,  but  you  were  raised 
here.  Why  do  you  want  to  leave  ?  " 

The  girl  hesitated,  and  ran  her  fingers  through  her 
horse's  mane. 

"  Mamma 's  been  here  against  her  will  for  a  good  many 
years.  We  ought  to  go  for  her  sake." 

Ben  made  a  motion  of  deprecation.  "  What  I  want  to 
know  is  the  real  reason,  —  your  own  reason,"  he  said. 

The  warm  blood  flushed  Florence's  face.  "  By  what 
right  do  you  ask  that  ?  "  she  retorted.  "  You  seem  to  for 
get  that  we've  both  grown  up  since  we  went  to  school 
together." 

Ben  looked  calmly  out  over  the  prairie. 

"  No,  I  don't  forget ;  and  I  admit  I  have  no  right  to 
ask.  But  I  may  ask  as  a  friend,  I  am  sure.  Why  do 
you  want  to  go  ?  " 

Again  the  girl  hesitated.  Logically  she  should  refuse 
to  answer.  To  do  otherwise  was  to  admit  that  her  first 
answer  was  an  evasion ;  but  something,  an  influence  that 
always  controlled  her  in  Ben's  presence,  prevented  refusal. 
Slow  of  speech,  deliberate  of  movement  as  he  was,  there 
was  about  him  a  force  that  dominated  her,  even  as  she 

[86] 


A  Riffle  of  Prairie 

dominated  her  parents,  and,  worst  of  all  —  to  her  inmost 
self  she  admitted  the  fact  —  it  fascinated  her  as  well. 
With  all  her  strength  she  rebelled  against  the  knowledge 
and  combated  the  influence,  but  in  vain.  Instead  of  re 
plying,  she  chirruped  to  her  horse.  "  It  seems  to  me,"  she 
said,  "  it 's  just  as  well  to  begin  hunting  here  as  to  go  fur 
ther.  I  'm  going  on  ahead  to  ask  papa  and  Mr.  Rankin." 

With  a  grave  smile,  Blair  reached  over  and  caught  her 
bridle-rein,  saying  carelessly  :  "  Pardon  me,  but  you  forget 
something  you  were  going  to  tell  me.1' 

The  girl's  brown  cheeks  crimsoned  anew,  but  this  time 
there  was  no  hesitation  in  her  reply. 

"  Very  well,  since  you  insist,  I  '11  answer  your  question  ; 
but  don't  be  surprised  if  I  offend  you."  A  dainty  hand 
tugged  at  the  loosened  button  of  her  riding-glove.  "  I  'm 
going  away,  for  one  reason,  because  I  want  to  be  where 
things  move,  and  where  I  don't  always  know  what  is  going 
to  happen  to-morrow."  She  turned  to  her  companion  di 
rectly.  "  But  most  of  all,  I  'm  going  because  I  want  to  be 
among  people  who  have  ambitions,  who  do  things,  things 
worth  while.  I  am  tired  of  just  existing,  like  the  ani 
mals,  from  day  to  day.  I  was  only  a  young  girl  when  we 
were  going  to  school,  but  now  I  know  why  I  liked  that 
life  so  well.  It  was  because  of  the  intense  activity,  the 
constant  movement,  the  competition,  the  evolution.  I 
like  it !  I  want  to  be  a  part  of  it ! " 

"  Thank  you  for  telling  me,"  said  Ben,  quietly. 

But  now  the  girl  was  in  no  hurry  to  hasten  on.  She 
forgot  that  her  explanation  was  given  under  protest,  It 
had  become  a  confession. 

[87] 


Ben  Blair 

"  Up  to  the  last  few  years  I  never  thought  much  about 
the  future  —  I  took  it  for  granted;  but  since  then  it 
has  been  different.  Unconsciously,  I  've  become  a  woman. 
All  the  little  things  that  belong  to  women's  lives,  too 
small  to  tell,  begin  to  appeal  to  me.  I  want  to  live  in  a 
good  house  and  have  good  clothes  and  know  people.  I 
want  to  go  to  shops  and  theatres  and  concerts  ;  all  these 
things  belong  to  me  and  I  intend  to  have  them." 

"  I  think  I  understand,"  said  Ben,  slowly.  "  Yes,  I'm 
sure  I  understand,"  he  repeated. 

But  the  girl  did  not  heed  him.  "  Last  of  all,  there 's 
another  reason,"  she  went  on.  "  I  don't  know  why  I 
should  n't  speak  it,  as  well  as  think  it,  for  it 's  the  greatest 
of  all.  I  'm  a  young  woman.  I  won't  remain  such  long. 
I  don't  want  to  be  a  spinster.  I  know  I'm  not  supposed  to 
say  these  things,  but  why  not  ?  I  want  to  meet  men,  men 
of  my  own  class,  my  parents'  class,  men  who  know  something 
besides  the  weight  of  a  steer  and  the  value  of  a  bronco,  — 
some  man  I  could  respect  and  care  for."  Again  she 
turned  directly  to  her  companion.  "  Do  you  wonder  I 
want  to  change,  that  I  want  to  leave  these  prairies,  much 
as  I  like  them  ?  " 

It  was  long  before  Ben  Blair  spoke.  He  scarcely  stirred 
in  his  seat ;  then  of  a  sudden,  rousing,  he  threw  his  leg 
back  over  the  saddle. 

"No,"  he  said  slowly,  "I  don't  wonder  —  looking  at 
things  your  way.  It 's  all  in  the  point  of  view.  But  per 
haps  yours  is  wrong,  maybe  you  don't  think  of  the  other 
side  of  that  life.  There  usually  is  another  side  to  every 
thing,  I've  noticed."  He  glanced  ahead.  A  half-mile  on, 

[88] 


A  Riffle  of  Prairie 

the  buckboard  had  stopped,  and  Scotty  was  standing  up 
on  the  seat  and  motioning  the  laggards  energetically. 

"  I  think  we  'd  better  dust  up  a  little.  Your  father 
seems  to  have  struck  something  interesting." 

Florence  seemed  inclined  to  linger,  but  Scotty's  waving 
cap  was  insistent,  and  they  galloped  ahead. 

They  found  Rankin  sitting  upon  the  wagon  seat,  smok 
ing  impassively  as  usual ;  but  the  Englishman  was  upon 
the  ground  holding  the  two  hounds  by  the  collars.  Be 
hind  the  big  compound  lenses  his  eyes  were  twinkling  ex 
citedly,  and  he  was  smiling  like  a  boy. 

"  Look  out  there  ! "  he  exclaimed  with  a  jerk  of  his  head, 
"  over  to  the  west.  We  all  but  missed  him !  Are  you 
ready  ?  " 

They  all  looked  and  saw,  perhaps  thirty  rods  away,  a 
grayish- white  jack-rabbit,  distinct  by  contrast  with  the 
brown  earth.  The  hounds  had  also  caught  sight  of  the 
game  and  pulled  lustily  at  their  collars. 

Instantly  Florence  was  all  excitement.  "Of  course 
we  're  ready  !  No,  wait  a  second,  until  I  see  about  my 
saddle."  She  dismounted  precipitately.  "Tighten  the 
cinch  a  bit,  won't  you,  Ben  ?  I  don't  mind  a  tumble,  but 
it  might  interfere  at  a  critical  moment."  She  put  her 
foot  in  his  extended  hand,  and  sprang  back  into  her  seat. 
"  Now,  I  'm  ready.  Come  on,  Ben  !  Let  them  go,  papa  ! 
Be  in  at  the  finish  if  you  can ! "  and,  a  second  behind  the 
hounds,  she  was  away.  Simultaneously,  the  great  jack- 
rabbit,  scenting  danger,  leaped  forward,  a  ball  of  animate 
rubber,  bounding  farther  and  farther  as  he  got  under  full 
motion,  speeding  away  toward  the  blue  distance. 

[  89  ] 


Ben  Blair 

The  chase  that  followed  was  a  thing  to  live  in  memory. 
From  the  nature  of  the  land,  gently  rolling  to  the  horizon 
without  an  obstruction  the  height  of  a  man's  hand,  there 
was  no  possibility  of  escape  for  the  quarry.  The  outcome 
was  as  mathematically  certain  as  a  problem  in  arithmetic ; 
the  only  uncertain  element  was  that  of  time.  At  first  the 
jack  seemed  to  be  gaining,  but  gradually  the  greater  endur 
ance  of  the  hounds  began  to  count,  and  foot  by  foot  the 
gap  between  pursuers  and  pursued  lessened.  In  the  begin 
ning  the  rabbit  ran  in  great  leaps,  as  though  glorying  in 
the  speed  that  it  would  seem  no  other  animal  could  equal, 
but  very  soon  his  movements  changed ;  his  ears  were  flat 
tened  tight  to  his  head,  and,  with  every  muscle  strained 
to  the  utmost,  he  ran  wildly  for  his  life. 

Meanwhile,  the  four  hunters  were  following  as  best  they 
might.  In  the  all  but  soundless  atmosphere,  the  rattle  of 
the  old  buckboard  could  be  heard  a  quarter  of  a  mile. 
Alternately  losing  and  gaining  ground  as  they  cut  off 
angles  and  followed  the  diameter  instead  of  the  circum 
ference  of  the  great  circles  the  rabbit  described,  the  drivers 
were  always  within  sight.  Closer  behind  the  hounds  and 
following  the  same  course,  Florence  rode  her  thoroughbred 
like  mad,  with  Ben  Blair  at  her  side.  The  pace  was  terrific. 
The  rush  of  the  crisp  morning  air  sang  in  their  ears  and 
cut  keenly  at  their  faces.  The  tattoo  of  the  horses'  feet 
upon  the  hard  earth  was  continuous.  Beneath  her  riding- 
cap,  the  girl's  hair  was  loosened  and  swept  free  in  the  wind. 
Her  color  was  high,  her  eyes  sparkled.  Never  before  had 
the  man  at  her  side  seen  her  so  fair  to  gaze  upon  ;  but 
despite  the  excitement,  despite  the  rush  of  action,  there 

[  90  ] 


A  Riffle  of  Prairie 

was  a  jarring  note  in  her  beauty.  Deep  in  his  nature,  in 
grained,  elemental,  was  the  love  of  fair  play.  Though  he 
was  in  the  chase  and  a  part  of  it,  his  sympathies  were  far 
from  being  with  the  hounds.  That  the  girl  should  favor 
the  strong  over  the  weak  was  something  he  could  not  under 
stand  —  a  blemish  that  even  her  beauty  did  not  excuse. 

A  quarter-hour  passed.  The  sun  rose  from  the  lap  of 
the  prairie  and  scattered  the  frost-crystals  as  though  they 
had  been  mist.  The  chase  was  near  its  end.  All  moved 
more  slowly.  A  dozen  times  since  they  had  started,  it 
seemed  as  if  the  hounds  must  soon  catch  their  prey,  that 
in  another  second  all  would  be  over ;  but  each  time  the 
rabbit  had  escaped,  had  at  the  last  instant  shot  into  the 
air,  while  the  hounds  rushed  harmlessly  beneath,  and,  ere 
they  recovered,  had  gained  a  goodly  lead  again  in  a  new 
course.  But  now  that  time  was  past,  and  he  was  tired 
and  weak.  It  was  a  straight-away  race,  with  the  hounds 
scarcely  twenty  feet  behind.  Back  of  the  latter,  perhaps 
ten  rods,  were  the  riders,  still  side  by  side  as  at  first. 
Their  horses  were  covered  with  foam  and  blowing  steadily, 
but  nevertheless  they  galloped  on  gallantly.  Bringing  up 
the  rear,  just  in  sight  but  now  out  of  sound,  was  the 
backboard.  Thus  they  approached  the  finish. 

Inch  by  inch  the  dogs  gained  upon  the  rabbit.  Stand 
ing  in  his  stirrups,  Ben  Blair,  the  seemingly  stolid,  watched 
the  scene.  The  twenty  feet  lessened  to  eighteen,  to  fifteen, 
and,  turning  his  head,  the  man  looked  at  his  companion. 
Beautiful  as  she  was,  there  now  appeared  to  his  eye  an 
expression  of  anticipation,  —  anticipation  of  the  end,  an 
ticipation  of  a  death,  —  the  death  of  a  weaker  animal ! 

[91] 


Ben  Blair 

A  determination  which  had  been  only  latent  became 

positive  with  Blair.     He  urged  on  his  horse  to  the  utter 

most  and  sprang  past  his  companion.     His  right  hand 

went  to  his  hip  and  lingered  there.     His  voice  rang  out 

above  the  sound  of  the  horses'  feet  and  of  their  breathing. 

"  Hi,  there,  Racer,  Pacer  !  "  he  shouted.    "  Come  here  !  * 

There  was  no  response  from  the  hounds  ;  no  sign  that 

they  had  heard  him.     They  were  within  ten  feet  of  the 

rabbit  now,  and  no  voice   on   earth  could  have  stopped 


"Pacer!  Racer!"  shouted  Ben.  There  was  a  pause, 
and  then  the  quick  bark  of  a  revolver.  A  puff  of  dust 
arose  before  the  nose  of  the  leading  dog. 

Again  no  response,  only  the  steadily  lessening  distance. 

For  a  second  Ben  Blair  hesitated;  but  it  was  for  a 
second  only.  Florence  watched  him,  too  surprised  to 
speak,  and  saw  what  for  a  moment  made  her  doubt  her 
own  eyes.  The  hand  that  held  the  big  revolver  was 
raised,  there  was  a  report,  then  another,  and  the  two  dead 
hounds  went  tumbling  over  and  over  with  their  own 
momentum  upon  the  brown  prairie.  Beyond  them  the 
rabbit  bounded  away  into  distance  and  safety. 

Without  a  word  Ben  Blair  drew  rein,  returned  the 
revolver  to  its  holster,  and  came  back  to  where  the  girl 
had  stopped. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,*"  he  said.  "  1  11  pay  you  for  the 
dogs,  if  you  like."  A  pause  and  a  straight  glance  from 
out  the  blue  eyes.  "  I  could  n't  help  doing  what  I  did." 

Having  in  mind  the  look  he  had  last  seen  upon  the 
giiTs  face,  he  expected  an  explosion  of  wrath  ;  but  he  was 

[92] 


A  Riffle  of  Prairie 

destined  to  surprise.  There  was  silence,  instead,  while 
two  great  tears  gathered  slowly  in  her  soft  eyes,  and 
brimmed  over  upon  the  brown  cheeks. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  pay  for  the  dogs ;  I  'm  glad 
they're  gone."  She  brushed  back  a  straggling  lock  of 
hair.  "  It 's  a  horrid  sport,  and  I  '11  never  have  anything 
to  do  with  it  again."  A  look  that  set  the  youth's  heart 
bounding  shot  out  sideways  from  beneath  the  long  lashes. 
"  I'm  very  glad  you  did  —  what  you  did." 

Just  then  the  noisy  old  buckboard,  with  Rankin  and 
Scotty  clinging  to  the  seat,  drove  up  and  stopped  short, 
with  a  protest  from  every  joint  of  the  ancient  vehicle. 


[931 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  DOMINANT  ANIMAL 

THE  chance  to  sell  his  stock,  ostensibly  his  reason 
for   delaying  departure,  came  to  Scotty  Baker 
much  more  quickly  than   he   had   anticipated. 
Within  a  week  after  the  hunt  —  in  the  very  first  mail  he 
received,  in  fact  —  came  an  offer  from  a  Minneapolis  firm 
to  take  every  scrap  of  horse-flesh  he  could  spare.     With 
much  compunction  and  a  doleful  face  he  read  the  letter 
aloud  in  the  family  council. 

"  That  means  '  go '  for  sure,  I  suppose,"  he  commented 
at  its  conclusion. 

Involuntarily  Florence  laughed.  "  You  look  as  though 
you  M  just  got  word  that  the  whole  herd  had  stampeded 
over  a  ravine,  instead  of  having  had  a  wave  of  good  for 
tune,"  she  bantered.  "I  believe  you'd  still  back  out  if 
you  could." 

Scotty's  face  did  not  lighten.  "I  know  I  would,"  he 
admitted. 

"We'll  not  give  you  the  chance,  though,"  broke  in 
Mollie,  with  the  first  indication  of  enthusiasm  she  had 
shown  in  many  a  day.  "  Florence  and  I  will  begin  pack 
ing  right  away,  and  you  can  carry  the  things  along  with 
you  when  you  drive  the  horses  to  town." 

[94] 


The  Dominant  Animal 

Scotty  looked  at  his  wife  steadily  and  caught  the  trace 
of  excitement  in  her  manner. 

"Yes,  that  is  a  good  suggestion,"  he  replied  slowly. 
"It's  liable  to  turn  cold  any  time  now,  and  as  long  as 
we  're  going  it  may  as  well  be  before  Winter  sets  in."  He 
filled  a  stubby  meerschaum  pipe  with  tobacco,  and  put  on 
cap  and  coat  preparatory  to  going  out  of  doors.  "  I  spoke 
to  Rankin  about  the  place  the  other  day,"  he  added,  "  and 
he  says  he'll  take  it  and  pay  cash  whenever  I'm  ready. 
1 11  drive  over  and  see  him  this  morning." 

Rankin  was  not  at  home  —  so  Ma  Graham  told  Scotty 
when  he  arrived  —  and  probably  he  would  n't  return  till 
afternoon  ;  but  Ben  was  around  the  barn  somewhere,  more 
than  likely  out  among  the  broncos.  He  usually  was, 
when  he  had  nothing  else  in  particular  to  do. 

Following  her  direction  the  Englishman  loitered  out 
toward  the  stock  quarters,  looked  with  interest  into  the 
big  sheds  where  the  haying  machinery  was  kept,  stopped 
to  listen  to  the  rush  of  water  through  the  four-inch  pipe 
of  the  artesian  well,  lit  his  pipe  afresh,  and  moved  on  re 
flectively  to  the  first  of  the  great  stockyards  that  stretched 
beyond.  A  tight  board  fence,  ten  feet  high,  built  as  a 
windbreak  on  two  sides,  obstructed  his  way ;  and  he  started 
to  walk  around  it.  At  the  end  the  windbreak  merged 
into  a  well-built  fence  of  six  wires,  and,  a  wagon's  breadth 
between,  a  long  row  of  haystacks,  built  as  a  further 
protection  against  the  wind.  These,  together  with  the 
wires,  formed  the  third  side  of  the  yard.  Leaning  on  the 
latter,  Scotty  looked  into  the  enclosure,  at  first  carelessly, 
then  with  interest.  A  moment  later,  without  making  his 

[95] 


Ben  Blair 

presence  known,  he  stepped  back  to  the  hay,  and,  select 
ing  a  pile  of  convenient  height,  sat  down  in  the  sunshine 
to  watch. 

What  he  saw  was  a  tall  slim  young  man,  in  chaparejos 
and  sombrero,  the  inevitable  "  repeater "  at  his  hip,  soli 
tarily  engaged  in  the  process  of  breaking  a  bronco.  Ordi 
narily  in  this  cattle-country  the  first  time  one  of  these  wiry 
little  ponies  is  ridden  is  on  a  holiday  or  a  Sunday,  when 
ever  a  company  of  spectators  can  be  secured  to  assist  or  to 
applaud ;  but  this  was  not  Ben  Blair's  way.  By  nature 
solitary,  whenever  possible  he  did  his  work  as  he  took  his 
pleasure,  unseen  of  men.  At  present,  as  he  went  methodi 
cally  about  his  business,  he  had  no  idea  that  a  person  save 
Ma  Graham  was  within  miles,  or  that  anyone  anywhere 
had  the  slightest  interest  in  what  he  was  doing. 

"  Yard  One,"  as  the  cowboys  designated  this  corral,  was 
the  most  used  of  any  on  the  ranch.  Save  for  a  single  stout 
post  set  solidly  in  its  centre,  it  was  entirely  clear,  and  under 
the  feet  of  hundreds  of  cattle  had  been  tramped  firm  as  a 
pavement.  At  present  it  contained  a  half-dozen  horses, 
and  one  of  these,  a  little  mustang  that  was  Ben's  particu 
lar  pride,  he  was  just  saddling  when  Scotty  appeared ;  the 
others,  a  wild-eyed,  evil-looking  lot,  scattering  meantime 
as  far  as  the  boundaries  of  the  corral  would  permit. 

Very  deliberately  Ben  mounted  the  pony,  hitched  up 
the  legs  of  his  leather  trousers,  folded  back  the  brim  of  the 
big  sombrero,  and  critically  inspected  the  ponies  before 
him.  One  of  them,  a  demoniacal  looking  buckskin,  ap 
peared  more  vixenish  than  the  others,  and  very  promptly 
the  youth  made  this  selection ;  but  to  get  in  touch 

[96] 


The  Dominant  Animal 

of  the  wily  little  beast  was  another  matter.  Every  time 
the  rancher  made  a  move  forward  the  herd  found  it  con 
venient  likewise  to  move,  and  to  the  limit  of  the  corral 
fence.  Once  clear  around  the  yard  the  rider  humored 
them;  and  Scotty,  the  spectator,  felt  sure  he  must  be 
observed.  But  Ben  never  looked  outside  the  fence. 

Starting  to  make  the  circle  a  second  time,  the  rancher 
spoke  a  single  word  to  the  little  mustang  and  they  moved 
ahead  at  a  gallop.  Instantly  responsive,  the  herd  likewise 
broke  into  a  lope,  maintaining  their  lead.  Twice,  three 
times,  faster  and  faster,  the  rider  and  the  riderless  com 
pleted  the  circle,  the  hard  ground  ringing  with  the  din, 
the  dust  rising  in  a  filmy  cloud;  then  of  a  sudden  the 
figure  on  the  mustang  passed  from  inaction  into  motion, 
the  left  hand  on  the  reins  tightened  and  turned  the  pony's 
head  to  the  side,  straight  across  the  diameter  of  the  circle. 
Simultaneously  the  right  dropped  to  the  lariat  coiled  on 
the  pummel  of  the  saddle,  loosed  it,  and  swung  the  noose 
at  the  end  freely  in  air.  On  galloped  the  broncos,  un 
mindful  of  the  trick  —  on  around  the  limiting  fence,  until 
suddenly  they  found  almost  in  their  midst  the  animal, 
man,  whom  they  so  feared,  whom  they  were  trying  so  to 
escape.  Then  for  a  moment  there  was  scattering,  reversal, 
confusion,  a  denser  cloud  of  dust ;  but  for  one  of  their 
number,  the  buckskin,  it  was  too  late.  Ben  Blair  rose  in 
his  stirrups,  the  rawhide  rope  that  had  been  circling  above 
his  sombrero  shot  out,  spread,  dropped  over  the  uplifted 
yellow  head.  The  little  mustang  the  man  rode  recognized 
the  song  of  the  lariat ;  well  he  knew  what  would  follow. 
In  anticipation  he  stopped  dead ;  his  front  legs  stiffened. 
7  [97] 


Ben  Blair 

There  was  a  shock,  a  protest  of  straining  leather  which 
Scotty  could  hear  clear  beyond  the  corral,  as,  checked 
under  speed,  the  buckskin  rose  on  his  hind-feet  and  all 
but  lost  his  balance.  That  instant  was  Blairs  opportunity. 
He  turned  his  mustang  swiftly  and  headed  straight  for  the 
centre-post,  dragging  the  struggling  and  half-strangled 
bronco ;  he  rode  around  the  post,  sprang  from  the  saddle, 
took  a  skilful  half-hitch  in  the  lariat  —  and  the  buckskin 
was  a  prisoner. 

Scotty  polished  his  glasses  excitedly.  He  was  wonder 
ing  how  the  sleek  young  men  with  whom  he  would  soon 
be  mingling  in  the  city  would  go  at  a  job  like  that ;  and 
he  smiled  absently. 

To  "  snub  "  the  bronco  up  to  the  post  so  that  he  could 
scarcely  turn  his  head  was  an  easy  matter.  To  exchange 
the  bridle  to  the  new  mount  was  also  comparatively  simple. 
To  adjust  the  great  saddle,  with  the  unwilling  victim 
struggling  like  mad,  was  a  more  difficult  task ;  but  event 
ually  all  these  came  to  pass,  and  Ben  paused  a  moment 
to  inspect  his  handiwork.  To  a  tenderfoot  observer  it 
might  have  seemed  that  the  battle  was  about  over ;  but 
as  a  matter  of  fact  it  had  scarcely  begun.  To  chronicle 
on  paper  that  a  certain  person  on  a  certain  day  rode  a 
certain  bronco  for  the  first  time  sounds  commonplace; 
but  to  one  who  has  seen  the  deviltry  lurking  in  those  wild 
prairie  ponies'  eyes,  who  knows  their  dogged  fighting  dis 
position,  the  reality  is  very  different. 

Only  a  moment  Ben  Blair  paused.  Almost  before 
Scotty  had  got  his  spectacles  back  to  his  nose  he  saw  the 
long  figure  spring  into  the  saddle,  observed  that  the  lariat 

[98] 


The  Dominant  Animal 

which  had  held  the  bronco  helpless  to  the  post  had  been 
removed,  and  knew  that  the  fight  was  on  in  earnest. 

And  emphatically  it  was  on.  With  his  first  leap  the 
pony  went  straight  into  the  air,  to  come  down  with  a 
mighty  jolt,  stiff-legged;  but  Ben  Blair  sat  through  it 
apparently  undisturbed.  If  ever  an  animal  showed  sur 
prise  it  was  the  buckskin  then.  For  an  instant  he  paused, 
looked  back  at  the  motionless  rider  with  eyes  that  seemed 
almost  green,  then  suddenly  started  away  at  full  speed 
around  the  corral  as  though  Satan  himself  were  in  pursuit. 

Instantly  with  the  diminutive  horse  swift  anger  took 
the  place  of  surprise.  Scotty,  the  spectator,  could  read 
it  in  the  tightening  of  the  rippling  muscles  beneath  the 
skin,  in  the  toss  of  the  sleek  head.  Fear  had  passed  long 
ago,  if  the  little  beast  had  ever  really  known  the  sensation. 
It  was  now  merely  animal  against  animal,  dogged  obsti 
nacy  against  dogged  tenacity,  a  fight  until  one  or  the 
other  gave  in,  no  quarter  asked  or  accepted. 

As  before,  the  bronco  was  the  aggressor.  One  by  one, 
so  swiftly  that  they  formed  a  continuous  movement,  he 
tried  all  the  tricks  which  instinct  or  ingenuity  suggested. 
He  bucked,  his  hind-quarters  in  the  air  until  it  seemed  he 
would  reverse.  He  reared  up  until  his  front  feet  were  on 
the  level  of  a  man's  head,  until  Scotty  held  his  breath  for 
fear  the  animal  would  lose  his  balance  backward;  but 
when  he  resumed  the  normal  he  found  the  man,  ever  re 
lentless,  firmly  in  place,  impassively  awaiting  the  next 
move.  He  grew  more  furious  with  each  failure.  The 
sweat  oozed  out  in  drops  that  became  trickling  streams 
beneath  the  short  hair.  His  breath  came  more  quickly, 

[99] 


Ben  Blair 

whistling  through  the  wide  nostrils.  A  new  light  came 
into  the  gray-green  eyes  and  flashed  from  them  fiendishly. 
As  suddenly  as  he  had  made  his  previous  attacks  he  played 
his  last  trump.  Like  a  ball  of  lead  he  dropped  in  his 
tracks  and  tried  to  roll ;  but  the  great  saddle  prevented, 
and  when  he  sprang  up  again,  there,  as  firmly  seated  as 
before,  was  the  hated  man  upon  his  back. 

Then  overpowering  and  unreasoning  anger,  the  wrath 
of  a  frenzied  lion  in  a  cage,  of  a  baited  bull  in  a  ring, 
took  possession  of  the  buckskin.  He  went  through  his 
tricks  anew,  not  methodically  as  before,  but  furiously,  des 
perately.  The  sweat  churned  into  foam  beneath  the 
saddle  and  between  his  legs.  He  screamed  like  a  demon, 
until  the  other  broncos  retreated  in  terror,  and  Scotty's 
hair  fairly  lifted  on  his  head.  But  one  idea  possessed 
him  —  to  kill  this  being  on  his  back,  this  hated  thing  he 
could  not  move  or  dislodge.  A  suggestion  of  means  came 
to  him,  and  straight  as  a  line  he  made  for  the  high  board 
fence.  There  was  no  misunderstanding  his  purpose. 

Then  for  the  first  time  Ben  Blair  roused  himself.  The 
hand  on  the  rein  tightened,  as  the  lariat  had  tightened, 
until  the  small  head  with  the  dainty  ears  curled  back  in  a 
half-circle.  Simultaneously  the  long  rowels  of  a  spur  bit 
deep  into  the  foaming  flank,  the  swish  of  a  quirt  sounded 
keenly,  a  voice  broke  out  in  one  word  of  command, 
"Whoa!"  and  repeated,  "Whoa!" 

It  was  like  thunder  out  of  a  clear  sky,  like  an  unseen 
blow  in  the  dark.  Within  three  feet  of  the  fence  the 
bronco  stopped  and  stood  trembling  in  every  muscle, 
expecting  he  knew  not  what. 

[  100] 


The  Dominant 

It  was  the  man's  time  now  —  the  be^mningbf  t 
"  Get  up ! "  repeated  the  same  authoritative  voice,  and 
the  hand  on  the  bit  loosened.     "  Get  up  !  **  and  rowel  and 
quirt  again  did  their  work. 

In  terror  this  time  the  bronco  plunged  ahead,  felt  the 
guiding  rein,  and  started  afresh  around  the  circle  of  the 
corral  fence.     "  Get  up ! "  repeated  Ben,  and  like  a  streak 
of  yellowish  light  they  spun  about  the  trail.     Round  and 
round  they  went,  the  body  of  the  man  and  horse  alike 
tilted  in  at  an  angle,  the  other  ponies  plunging  to  clear 
the  way.    Scotty  counted  ten  revolutions ;  then  he  awaited 
the  end.     It  was  not  long  in  coming.     Of  a  sudden,  as 
before,  directly  in  front  of  where  he  sat,  the  bridle-reins 
tightened,  and  he   heard   the  one  word,    "  Whoa ! "  and 
pony  and  rider  stopped  like  figures  in  clay.    For  a  moment 
they  stood  motionless,  save  for  their  labored  breathing ; 
then   very   deliberately   Ben   Blair  dismounted.      Not  a 
movement  did  the  buckskin  make,  either  of  offence  or  to 
escape;  he  merely  waited.      Still  deliberately,  the  man 
removed  the  saddle  and  bridle,  while  not  a  muscle  of  the 
bronco's  body  stirred.     Scotty  watched  the  scene  in  fasci 
nation.     Every  trace  of  anger  was  out  of  the  pony's  gray- 
green  eyes  now,  every  indication  of  terror  as  well.    Dozens 
of  horses  the  Englishman  had  seen  broken ;  but  one  like 
this  —  never  before.     It  was  as  though  in  the  last  few 
minutes  an  understanding  had  come  about  between  this 
fierce  wild  thing  and  its  conqueror ;  as  though,  like  every 
human  being  with  whom  he  came  in  contact,  the  latter 
had  dominated  by  the  sheer  strength  of  his  will.     It  was 
all  but  uncanny. 


Ben  Blair 

Slowly  Blair  lajd  the  bridle  beside  the  saddle,  and  step 
ping  over  to  his  late  mount  he  patted  the  damp  neck  and 
gently  stroked  the  silken  muzzle. 

"  I  think,  old  boy,  you  "11  remember  me  when  we  meet 
again,"  Scotty  heard  him  say.  "  Good  luck  to  you  mean 
time,"  and  with  a  last  pat  he  picked  up  his  riding  para 
phernalia  and  started  for  the  sheds. 

Scotty  stood  up.     "  Hello,"  he  called. 

Ben  halted  and  turned  about,  looking  his  surprise. 

"  Well,  in  the  name  of  all  that's  proper ! "  he  ejaculated 
slowly  ;  "  where  'd  you  drop  down  from  ?  " 

Scotty  smiled  broadly ;  frank  admiration  for  the  dusty 
cowboy  was  in  his  gaze. 

"  I  did  n't  drop  down  at  all ;  I  walked  around  here 
about  half  an  hour  ago.  You  were  rather  preoccupied  at 
the  time  and  did  n't  notice  me." 

Blair  came  back  to  the  fence  and  swung  over  the  saddle 
and  bridle.  "You  took  in  the  whole  show  then?"  he 
asked.  A  trace  of  color  came  into  his  face,  as  he  vaulted 
over  the  rails.  "  I  hope  you  enjoyed  it." 

Scotty  observed  the  latest  feat,  unconscious  as  its  prede 
cessor,  with  augmented  admiration.  "  I  certainly  did,"  he 
said,  and  the  subject  was  dropped. 

The  two  men  walked  together  toward  the  ranch-house. 

"I  came  over  to  see  Rankin,"  remarked  the  English 
man,  "  but  I  'm  afraid  1 11  have  to  wait  a  bit." 

"  I  guess  you  will,"  replied  Ben.  "  He  went  up  to  the  north 
well  this  morning.  They  Ye  building  some  sheds  up  there, 
and  he's  superintending  the  job.  He 's  as  liable  to  forget 
about  dinner  as  not.  Nothing  I  can  do  for  you,  is  there  ?  " 

[  102] 


The  Dominant  Animal 

Scotty  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets. 

"  No,  I  guess  not.  I  came  over  to  see  about  selling  him 
my  place.  We  Ye  going  to  leave  in  a  few  days." 

Ben  Blair  made  no  comment,  and  for  a  moment  they 
walked  on  in  silence ;  then  an  idea  suddenly  occurred  to 
the  Englishman. 

"  Come  to  think  of  it,"  he  said,  "  there  is  something  you 
can  do  for  me.  Bill  and  I  have  got  to  drive  all  the  stock 
over  to  the  station.  I  'd  be  a  thousand  times  obliged  if 
you  would  help  us." 

For  a  half-dozen  steps  Blair  did  not  answer ;  then  he 
turned  fairly  to  his  companion. 

"  You  won't  be  offended  if  I  refuse  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  No,  certainly  not." 

"Well,  then,  I  don't  want  to  help  you  myself,  but 
I'll  get  Grannis  to  go  with  you.  He'll  be  just  as 
useful." 

Ordinarily,  despite  his  assertion  to  the  contrary,  Scotty 
would  have  been  offended ;  but  he  knew  this  long  youth 
quite  too  well  to  misunderstand. 

"  Would  you  mind  telling  me  why  you  refuse  ?  "  he  said 
at  last. 

Ben  shifted  the  heavy  saddle  to  his  other  shoulder. 

"No,  I  don't  mind,"  he  said  bluntly.  "I  won't  help 
you  because  I  don't  want  you  to  go." 

Scotty  pondered,  and  a  light  dawned  on  his  slow- 
moving  brain.  He  looked  at  Ben  sympathetically.  "  My 
boy,"  he  said,  "  I  'm  sorry  for  you ;  by  Jove  !  I  am." 

They  were  even  with  the  horse-barn  now,  and  without 
a  word  Ben  went  in  and  hung  up  the  saddle,  each  stirrup 

[  103  ] 


Ben  Blair 

upon  a  nail.  Relieved  of  his  load  he  came  back,  slapping 
the  dust  from  his  clothes  with  his  big  gauntlets. 

"  If  it 's  a  fair  question,"  he  asked,  "  why  do  I  merit 
your  sympathy?" 

The  Englishman's  hands  went  deeper  into  his  pockets. 

"  Why  ?  "  He  all  but  stared.  "  Because  you  have  n't 
a  ghost  of  a  chance  with  Florence.  She  'd  laugh  at  you ! " 

Ben's  blue  eyes  were  raised  to  a  level  with  the  other's 
glasses.  "  She  'd  laugh  at  me,  you  think  ? "  he  asked 
quietly. 

Scotty  shifted  uneasily.  "  Well,  perhaps  not  that,"  he 
retracted,  "  but  anyway,  you  have  n't  a  chance.  I  like 
you,  Ben,  and  I  'm  dead  sorry  that  she  is  different.  She 
comes,  if  I  do  say  it,  of  a  good  family,  and  you  — "  of  a 
sudden  the  Englishman  found  himself  floundering  in  deep 
water. 

"  And  I  am  —  an  unknown,"  Ben  finished  for  him. 

At  that  moment  Scotty  heartily  wished  himself  else 
where,  but  wishing  did  not  help  him.  "Yes,  to  put  it 
baldly,  that's  the  word.  It's  unfortunate,  damned  un 
fortunate,  but  true,  you  know." 

Ben's  eyes  did  not  leave  the  other  man's  face.  "  You  've 
talked  with  her,  have  you  ?  "  he  asked. 

Scotty  fidgeted  more  than  before,  and  swore  silently 
that  in  future  he  would  keep  his  compassions  to  himself. 

"No,  I've  never  thought  it  necessary  so  far;  but  of 
course  —  " 

Ben  Blair  lifted  his  head.  "Don't  worry,  Mr.  Baker, 
I  '11  tell  her  my  pedigree  myself.  I  supposed  she  already 
knew  —  that  everybody  who  had  ever  heard  of  me  knew." 

[104,] 


The  Dominant  Animal 

Scotty  forgot  his  nervousness.  "  You  "11  —  tell  her 
yourself,  you  say  ? " 

"Certainly." 

The  Englishman  said  nothing.  It  seemed  to  him  there 
was  nothing  to  say. 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence.  "Mr.  Baker,"  said  Blair 
at  last,  "  as  long  as  we  Ve  started  on  this  subject  I  sup 
pose  we  might  as  well  finish  it  up.  I  love  your  daughter ; 
that  you  Ve  guessed.  If  I  can  keep  her  here,  1 11  do  so. 
It's  my  right;  and  if  there's  a  God  who  watches  over 
us,  He  knows  I  '11  do  my  best  to  make  her  happy.  As  to 
my  mother,  I  '11  tell  her  about  that  myself —  and  consider 
the  matter  closed." 

Again  there  was  silence.  As  before,  there  seemed  to 
the  Englishman  nothing  to  say. 

Blair  turned  toward  the  ranch-house.  "  I  saw  Ma 
Graham  motioning  for  dinner  quite  a  while  ago,"  he  said. 
"  Let 's  go  in  and  eat." 


[  105] 


CHAPTER  XI 

LOVE'S  AVOWAL 

A  DISTINCT  path,  in  places  almost  a  beaten  road, 
connected  the  [ll  and  the  Baker  ranches.  Along 
it  a  tall  slim  youth  was  riding  a  buckskin  pony. 
He  was  clean-shaven  and  clean-shirted ;  but  the  shirt  was 
of  rough  brown  flannel.  His  leather  trousers  were  creased 
and  baggy  at  the  knees.  At  his  hip  protruded  the  butt 
of  a  big  revolver.  Upon  his  head,  seemingly  a  load  in 
itself,  was  a  broad  sombrero ;  and  surrounding  it,  beneath 
a  band  which  at  one  time  had  been  very  gaudy  but  was 
now  sobered  by  sun  and  rain,  were  stuck  a  score  or  more 
of  matches.  Despite  the  motion  of  the  horse  the  youth 
was  steadily  smoking  a  stubby  bulldog  pipe. 

The  time  was  morning,  early  morning ;  it  was  Winter, 
and  the  sun  was  still  but  a  little  way  up  in  the  sky.  The 
day,  although  the  month  was  December,  was  as  warm  as 
September.  There  had  not  even  been  a  frost  the  previous 
night.  Mother  Nature  was  indulging  in  one  of  her  many 
whims,  and  seemed  smiling  broadly  at  the  incongruity. 

Though  the  rider  was  out  thus  early,  his  departure  had 
been  by  no  means  surreptitious.  "  I  'm  going  over  to 
Baker's,  and  may  not  be  back  before  night,"  he  had  said 
at  the  breakfast  table ;  and,  impassive  as  usual,  the  older 

[106] 


Love's  Avowal 

man  had  made  no  comment,  but  simply  nodded  and  went 
about  his  work.  Likewise  there  was  no  subterfuge  when 
the  youth  arrived  at  his  destination.  "I  came  to  see 
Florence,"  he  announced  to  Scotty  in  the  front  yard;  then, 
as  he  tied  the  pony,  he  added  :  "  I  spoke  to  Grannis,  and 
he  said  he  'd  come  over  and  help  you.  Do  you  know 
exactly  when  you  "11  want  him  ?  " 

"  Yes,  day  after  to-morrow.  This  weather  is  too  good 
to  waste." 

Ben  turned  toward  the  house.  "All  right.  I'll  see 
that  he's  over  here  bright  and  early." 

The  visitor  found  the  interior  of  the  Baker  home  look 
ing  like  a  corner  in  a  storage  warehouse.  Florence,  in  a 
big  checked  apron  reaching  to  her  chin,  her  sleeves  rolled 
up  to  her  elbows,  was  busily  engaged  in  still  further  dis 
mantling  the  once  cosey  parlor.  Amidst  the  confusion, 
and  apparently  a  part  of  it,  Mrs.  Baker  wandered  aimlessly 
about.  The  front  door  was  wide  open,  letting  in  a  stream 
of  sunlight. 

"  Good-morning,"  said  Ben,  appearing  in  the  doorway. 

Mrs.  Baker  stopped  long  enough  to  nod,  and  Florence 
looked  up  from  her  work. 

"Good-morning,"  she  replied.  A  deliberate  glance 
took  in  the  new-comer's  dress  from  head  to  foot,  and 
lingered  on  the  exposed  revolver  hilt.  "  Are  you  hunting 
Indians  or  bear  ?  " 

Ben  Blair  returned  the  look,  even  more  deliberately. 

"Bear,  I  judge  from  the  question.  I  came  in  search 
of  you." 

There  was  no  answer,  and  the  man  came  in  and  sat 
[107] 


Ben  Blair 

down  on  the  corner  of  a  box.     "You  seem  to  be  very 
busy,"  he  said. 

The  girl  went  on  with  her  packing.  "Yes,  rather 
busy,"  she  said  indifferently. 

Ben  dangled  one  long  leg  over  the  side  of  the  box. 

"  Are  you  too  busy  to  take  a  ride  with  me?  I  want  to 
talk  with  you." 

"  I  'm  pretty  busy,"  non-committally. 

"  Suppose  I  should  ask  it  as  a  favor  ?  " 

"  Suppose  I  should  decline  ?  " 

The  long  leg  stopped  its  swinging.  "You  wouldn't, 
though." 

The  girl's  brown  eyes  flashed.  "  How  do  you  know  I 
would  n't  ?  " 

Ben  stood  up  and  folded  his  arms.  "  Because  it  would 
be  the  first  favor  I  ever  asked  of  you,  and  you  would  n't 
refuse  that." 

They  eyed  each  other  a  moment. 

"  Where  do  you  want  to  go  ?  "  temporized  Florence. 

"  Anywhere,  so  it 's  with  you." 

"  You  don't  want  to  stay  long  ?  " 

"  I  '11  come  back  whenever  you  say." 

Florence  rolled  down  her  sleeves  and  sighed  with  assumed 
regret.  u  I  ought  to  stay  here  and  work." 

"  I  '11  help  you  when  we  come  back,  if  you  like." 

"  Very  well."     She  said  it  hesitatingly. 

"  All  right.     I  '11  get  your  horse  ready  for  you." 

Scotty  watched  them  peculiarly,  Molly  doubtfully,  as 
they  rode  out  of  the  ranch  yard ;  but  neither  made  any 
comment,  and  they  moved  away  in  silence. 

[  108] 


Love's  Avowal 

"That's  an  odd  looking  pony  you've  got  there,"  re 
marked  the  girl  critically,  when  they  had  turned  into  the 
half-beaten  trail  which  led  south.  "  How  does  it  happen 
you  're  on  him  instead  of  the  other  ?  " 

Ben  patted  the  smooth  neck  before  him,  and  the  pony 
twitched  his  ears  appreciatively. 

"  Buckskin  and  I  had  the  misfortune  not  to  meet  until 
lately.  We  just  got  acquainted  a  few  days  ago." 

The  girl  glanced  at  her  companion  quickly  and  caught 
the  look  upon  his  face. 

"  I  believe  you  Ye  fonder  of  your  horses  and  cattle  and 
things  than  you  are  of  people,"  she  flashed. 

The  man's  hand  continued  patting  the  pony's  yellow 
neck. 

"  More  fond  than  I  am  of  some  people,  maybe  you  meant 
to  say." 

"  Perhaps  so,"  she  conceded. 

"  Yes,  I  think  I  am,"  he  admitted.  "  They  're  more 
worthy.  They  never  abuse  a  kindness,  and  never  come 
down  to  the  insult  of  class  distinctions.  They're  the 
same  to-day,  to-morrow,  a  year  from  now.  They  '11  work 
themselves  to  death  for  you,  instead  of  sacrificing  you  to 
their  personal  gain.  Yes,  they  make  better  friends  than 
some  people." 

Florence  smiled  as  she  glanced  at  her  companion. 

"  Is  that  what  you  want  to  tell  me  ?  If  it  is,  seeing 
I've  just  made  my  choice  and  decided  to  return  to  civiliza 
tion  and  mingle  with  human  beings  of  whom  you  have 
such  a  poor  opinion,  I  think  we  may  as  well  go  back. 
Mamma  and  I  have  been  racking  our  brains  for  two  days 

[  109  ] 


Ben  Blair 

to  find  a  place  for  the  china,  and  I  Ve  just  thought  of 
one." 

Blair  was  silent  a  moment ;  then  he  said,  "  I  promised 
to  return  whenever  you  wished,  but  I  Ve  not  said  what  I 
wanted  to  say  yet." 

Florence  looked  at  the  speaker  with  feigned  surprise. 
"  Is  that  so  ?  I  'm  very  curious  to  hear  !  " 

Ben  returned  the  look  deliberately.  "  You  'd  like  to 
hear  now  what  I  have  to  say  ?  " 

The  girl's  breath  came  more  quickly,  but  she  persisted 
in  her  banter.  "  I  can  scarcely  wait ! " 

The  line  of  the  youth's  big  jaw  tightened.  "  I  won't 
keep  you  in  suspense  any  longer  then.  First  of  all,  I  want 
to  relate  a  little  personal  history.  I  was  eight  years  old,  as 
you  know,  when  I  was  taken  into  the  [R_  ranch.  In  those 
eight  years,  as  far  as  I  can  remember,  not  one  person 
except  Mr.  Rankin  ever  called  at  my  mother's  home." 

Again  the  girl  felt  a  thrill  of  anticipation,  but  the 
brown  eyes  opened  archly.  "  You  must  have  kept  a  big 
fierce  dog,  or  —  or  something." 

"  No,  that  was  not  the  reason." 

"  I  can't  imagine  what  it  could  be,  then." 

"The  explanation  is  simple.  My  mother  and  Tom 
Blair  were  never  married." 

Swiftly  the  color  mounted  into  Florence's  cheeks,  and 
she  drew  up  her  horse  with  a  jerk. 

"  So  that  is  what  you  brought  me  out  here  to  tell  me  ! " 
she  blazed. 

Ben  drew  up  likewise,  and  wheeled  his  pony  facing  hers. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  I  'm  not  to  blame  for  the  way 
[110] 


Love's  Avowal 

I  told  you  —  of  myself.     You  forced  it.     For  once  in  my 
life  at  least,  Florence,  I  'm  in  dead  earnest  to-day." 

The  girl  hesitated.  Tears  of  anger,  or  of  something 
else,  came  into  her  eyes.  "  I  'm  going  home,"  she  an 
nounced  briefly,  and  turned  back  the  way  they  had 
come. 

The  man  silently  wheeled  his  buckskin  and  for  five 
minutes,  ten  minutes,  they  rode  toward  home  together. 

"  Florence,"  said  the  youth  steadily,  "  I  had  something 
more  I  wished  to  say  to  you ;  will  you  listen  ?  " 

No  answer  —  only  the  sound  of  the  solid  steps  of  the 
thoroughbred  and  the  daintier  tread  of  the  mustang. 

"  Florence,"  he  repeated,  "  I  asked  you  a  question." 

The  girl's  face  was  turned  away.  "  Oh,  you  are  cruel ! " 
she  said. 

Ben  touched  his  pony,  advanced,  caught  the  bridle  of 
the  girl's  horse,  and  brought  both  to  a  standstill.  The 
girl  did  not  turn  her  head  to  look  at  him,  but  she  did  not 
resist.  Deliberately  the  man  dismounted,  loosed  the  rolled 
blanket  he  carried  back  of  his  saddle,  spread  it  upon  the 
ground,  then  looked  fairly  up  into  her  brown  eyes. 

"  Florence,"  he  said,  as  he  held  out  his  hand  to  assist 
her  to  dismount,  "  I  've  something  I  wish  very  much  to  say 
to  you.  Won't  you  listen  ?  " 

Florence  Baker  looked  steadily  down  into  the  clear  blue 
eyes.  Why  she  did  not  refuse  she  could  not  have  told, 
could  never  tell.  As  well  as  she  knew  her  own  name  she 
realized  what  was  coming  —  what  it  was  the  man  wished 
to  say  to  her ;  but  she  did  not  refuse  to  listen. 

"  Florence,"  he  said  gently,  "  I  'm  waiting,"  and  as  in  a 


Ben  Blair 

dream  she  stepped  into  the  proffered  hand,  felt  herself 
lowered  to  the  ground,  followed  the  young  man  over  to 
the  blanket,  and  sat  down.  The  sun,  now  high  above 
them,  shone  down  warmly  and  approvingly.  Scarcely  a 
breath  of  air  was  stirring.  Not  a  sound  came  from  over 
the  prairies.  As  completely  as  though  they  were  the  only 
two  people  on  the  earth,  they  were  alone. 

The  man  stretched  himself  at  his  companion's  feet, 
where  he  could  look  into  her  face  and  catch  its  every 
expression. 

"  Florence  Baker,"  his  voice  came  to  her  ears  like  the 
sound  of  one  speaking  afar  off,  "  Florence  Baker,  I  love 
you.  In  all  that  I  'm  going  to  say,  bear  this  in  mind ; 
don't  forget  it  for  a  moment.  To  me  you  will  always  be 
the  one  woman  on  earth.  Why  I  have  n't  told  you  this 
before,  why  I  waited  until  you  were  passing  from  my  life 
before  I  said  it,  I  don't  know ;  but  now  I  'm  as  sure  as 
that  I'm  looking  at  you  that  it  is  so."  The  blue  eyes 
never  shifted.  Presently  one  big  strong  hand  reached 
over  and  enfolded  within  its  grasp  another  tiny  resistless 
hand,  which  lay  there  passive. 

"  You  're  getting  ready  to  go  away,  Florence,"  he  went 
on,  "  leaving  this  country  where  you  've  spent  almost  your 
life,  changing  it  for  an  uncertainty.  Don't  do  it  —  not 
for  my  sake,  but  for  your  own.  You  know  nothing  of  the 
city,  its  pleasures,  its  rush,  its  excitement,  its  ambitions. 
Granted  that  you've  been  there,  that  we've  both  been 
there;  but  we  were  only  children  then  and  couldn't  see 
beneath  the  thinnest  surface.  Yet  there  must  be  some 
thing  beneath  the  glitter,  something  you  Ve  never  thought 

[112] 


Love's  Avowal 

of  and  cannot  realize ;  something  which  makes  the  life 
hateful  to  those  who  have  felt  and  known  it.  I  don't 
know  what  it  is,  you  don't ;  but  it  must  be  there.  If  it 
weren't  so,  why  would  men  like  your  father,  like  Mr. 
Rankin,  college  men,  men  of  wealth,  men  who  have  seen 
the  world,  leave  the  city  and  come  here  to  stay  ?  They 
were  born  in  cities,  raised  in  cities.  The  life  was  a  part 
of  their  life ;  but  they  left  it,  and  are  glad."  The  man 
clasped  the  little  hand  more  tightly,  shook  it  gently. 
66  Florence,  are  you  listening  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  'm  listening." 

"  I  repeat  then,  don't  go.  You  belong  here.  This  life 
is  your  life.  Everything  that  is  best  for  your  happiness 
you  will  find  here.  You  spoke  the  other  day  of  your 
birthright  —  to  love  and  to  be  loved  —  as  though  this 
could  only  be  realized  in  a  city.  Do  you  think  I  don't 
care  for  you  as  much  as  though  my  home  were  in  a  town  ?" 

Passive,  motionless,  Florence  listened,  feeling  the  subtle 
sympathy  which  ever  existed  between  her  and  this  boy- 
man  drawing  them  closer  together.  His  strong  magnet 
ism,  never  before  so  potent,  gripped  her  almost  like  a 
physical  force.  His  personality,  original,  masterful,  con 
vincing,  fascinated  her.  For  the  time  the  tacit  consent 
of  her  position  never  occurred  to  her.  It  seemed  but 
natural  and  fitting  that  he  should  hold  her  hand.  She 
had  no  desire  to  speak  or  move,  merely  to  listen. 

"  Florence,"  the  voice  was  very  near  now,  and  very  low. 

"  Florence,    I    love   you.      I   can't   have   you   go   away, 

can't  have  you  pass  out  of  my  life.     I  '11  do  anything  for 

you,  —  live  for  you,  die  for  you,  fight  for  you,  slave  for 

8  '  [113] 


Ben  Blair 

you,  —  anything  but  give  you  up."  Of  a  sudden  his  arms 
were  about  her,  his  lips  touched  her  cheek.  "  Can't  you 
love  me  in  return  ?  Speak  to  me,  tell  me  —  for  I  love 
you,  Florence !  " 

The  girl  started,  and  drew  away  involuntarily.  "  Oh, 
don't,  don't!  please  don't!"  she  pleaded.  The  dream 
faded,  and  she  awoke  to  the  reality  of  her  position.  The 
brown  head  bowed,  dropped  into  her  hands.  Her  whole 
body  shook.  "  Oh,  what  have  I  done ! "  she  sobbed.  "  Oh, 
what  have  I  done  !  Oh  —  oh  —  oh  —  " 

For  a  time,  neither  of  them  realized  nor  cared  how  long, 
they  sat  side  by  side,  though  separate  now.  Warmly  and 
brightly  as  before,  the  sun  shone  down  upon  them.  A 
breath  of  breeze,  born  of  the  heated  earth,  wandered 
gently  over  the  land.  The  big  thoroughbred  shifted  on 
its  feet  and  whinnied  suggestively. 

Gradually  the  girl's  hysterical  weeping  grew  quieter. 
The  sobs  came  less  frequently,  and  at  last  ceased.  Ben 
Blair  slowly  arose,  folded  his  arms,  and  waited.  Another 
minute  passed.  Florence  Baker,  the  storm  over,  glanced 
up  at  her  companion  —  at  first  hesitatingly,  then  openly 
and  soberly.  She  stood  up,  almost  at  his  side ;  but  he 
did  not  turn.  Awe,  contrition,  strange  feelings  and 
emotions  flooded  her  anew.  She  reached  out  her  hand 
and  touched  him  on  the  arm ;  at  first  hesitatingly,  then 
boldly,  she  leaned  her  head  against  his  shoulder. 

"  Ben,"  she  pleaded,  "  Ben,  forgive  me.  I  've  hurt  you 
terribly ;  but  I  did  n't  mean  to.  I  am  as  I  am  ;  I  can't 
help  it.  I  can't  promise  to  do  what  you  ask  —  can't 
say  I  love  you  now,  or  promise  to  love  you  in  the 

[114] 


Love's  Avowal 

future.11  She  looked  up  into  his  face.  "Won't  you 
forgive  me?" 

Still  the  man  did  not  turn.  "  There 's  nothing  to  for 
give,  Florence,"  he  said  sadly.  "  I  misunderstood  it  all." 

"  But  there  is  something  for  me  to  say,"  she  went  on 
swiftly.  "  I  knew  from  the  first  what  you  were  going  to 
tell  me,  and  knew  I  could  n't  give  you  what  you  asked ; 
yet  I  let  you  think  differently.  It's  all  my  fault,  Ben, 
and  I  'm  so  sorry  !  "  She  gently  and  timidly  stroked  the 
shoulder  of  the  rough  flannel  shirt.  "  I  should  have 
stopped  you,  and  told  you  my  reasons ;  but  they  seemed 
so  weak,  and  somehow  I  could  n't  help  listening  to  you." 
There  was  a  hesitating  pause.  "  Would  you  like  to  hear 
my  reasons  now  ?  " 

"  Just  as  you  please."  There  was  no  unkindness  in  the 
voice  —  only  resignation  and  acceptance  of  the  hard  fact 
she  had  already  made  known  to  him. 

Florence  hesitated.  A  catch  came  into  her  throat,  and 
she  dropped  her  head  to  the  broad  shoulder  as  before. 

"  Ben,  Ben  ! "  she  almost  sobbed,  "  I  can't  tell  you,  after 
all.  It  '11  only  hurt  you  again." 

He  was  looking  out  over  the  prairies,  watching  the 
heat-waves  that  arose  in  fantastic  circles,  as  in  Spring. 
"  You  can't  hurt  me  again,"  he  said  wearily. 

The  vague  feeling  of  irreparable  loss  gripped  the  girl 
anew ;  but  this  time  she  rushed  on  desperately,  in  spite 
of  it.  "  Oh,  why  could  n't  I  have  met  you  somewhere 
else,  under  different  circumstances?"  she  wailed.  "Why 
could  n't  your  mother  have  been  —  different  ?  "  She 
paused,  the  brown  head  raised,  the  loosened  hair  tossed 

[115] 


Ben  Blair 

back  in  abandon.  "  Maybe,  as  you  say,  it  's  a  rainbow 
I  'm  seeking.  Maybe  1 11  be  sorry ;  but  I  can't  help  it. 
I  want  them  all  —  the  things  of  civilization.  I  want 
them  all,"  she  finished  abruptly. 

Gently  the  man  disengaged  himself.  "  Is  that  all  you 
wished  to  say  ?  " 

"Yes,"  hesitatingly,  "I  guess  that's  all." 

Ben  picked  up  the  blanket  and  returned  it  to  his  saddle  ; 
then  he  led  the  horse  to  the  girl's  side.  "  Can  I  help 
you  up?" 

His  companion  nodded.  The  youth  held  down  his  hand, 
and  upon  it  Florence  mounted  to  the  saddle  as  she  had 
done  many  times  before.  The  thought  came  to  her  that 
it  might  be  the  last  time. 

Not  a  word  did  Ben  speak  as  they  rode  back  to  the 
ranch-house  ;  not  once  did  he  look  at  his  companion.  At 
the  door  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said  simply. 

"  Good-bye,"  she  echoed  feebly. 

Ben  made  his  adieu  to  Mrs.  Baker,  and  then  rode  out  to 
the  barn  where  Scotty  was  working.  "  Good-bye,"  he  re 
peated.  "  We  '11  probably  not  meet  again  before  you  go." 
The  expression  upon  the  Englishman's  face  caught  his 
eye.  "Don't,"  he  said.  "  I  'd  rather  not  talk  now." 

Scotty  gripped  the  extended  hand  and  shook  it  heartily. 

"  Good-bye,"  he  said,  with  misty  eyes. 

The  youth  wheeled  the  buckskin  and  headed  for  home. 
Florence  and  her  mother  were  still  standing  in  the  door 
way  watching  him,  and  he  lifted  his  big  sombrero ;  but  he 
did  not  glance  at  them,  nor  turn  his  head  in  passing. 

[116] 


CHAPTER  XII 

A  DEFERRED  RECKONING 

TIME  had  dealt  kindly  with  the  saloon  of  Mick 
Kennedy.  A  hundred  electric  storms  had  left 
it  unscathed.  Prairie  fires  had  passed  it  by. 
Only  the  relentless  sun  and  rain  had  fastened  the  mark  of 
their  handiwork  upon  it  and  stained  it  until  it  was  the 
color  of  the  earth  itself.  Within,  man  had  performed  a 
similar  office.  The  same  old  cotton  wood  bar  stretched 
across  the  side  of  the  room,  taking  up  a  third  of  the 
available  space;  but  no  stranger  would  have  called  it 
cottonwood  now.  It  had  become  brown  like  oak  from 
continuous  saturation  with  various  colored  liquids ;  and 
upon  its  surface,  indelible  record  of  the  years,  were  innu 
merable  bruises  and  dents  where  heavy  bottles  and  glasses 
had  made  their  impress  under  impulse  of  heavier  hands. 
The  continuous  deposit  of  tobacco  smoke  had  darkened  the 
ceiling,  modulating  to  a  lighter  tone  on  the  walls.  The 
place  was  even  gloomier  than  before,  and  immeasurably 
filthier  under  the  accumulated  grime  of  a  dozen  years. 
Once  in  their  history  the  battered  tables  had  been  re 
covered,  but  no  one  would  have  guessed  it  now.  The 
gritty  decks  of  cards  had  been  often  replaced,  but  from 
their  appearance  they  might  have  been  those  with  which 
Tom  Blair  long  ago  bartered  away  his  honor. 


Ben  Blair 

Time  had  left  its  impress  also  on  bartender  Mick.  A 
generous  sprinkling  of  gray  was  in  his  hair;  the  single 
eye  was  redder  and  fiercer,  seeming  by  its  blaze  to  have 
consumed  the  very  lashes  surrounding  it ;  the  cheeks  were 
sunken,  the  great  jaw  and  chin  prominent  from  the  loss 
of  teeth.  Otherwise  Mick  was  not  much  changed.  The 
hand  which  dealt  out  his  wares,  which  insisted  on  their 
payment  to  the  last  nickel,  was  as  steady  as  of  yore. 
His  words  were  as  few,  his  control  of  the  reckless  and 
often  drunken  frequenters  was  as  perfect.  He  was  the 
personified  spirit  of  the  place  —  crafty,  designing,  re 
lentless. 

Bob  Hoyt,  the  foreman,  shambled  into  Mickys  lair  at  the 
time  of  day  when  the  lights  were  burning  and  smoking  on 
the  circling  shelf.  He  peered  through  the  haze  of  tobacco 
smoke  at  the  patrons  already  present,  received  a  word 
from  one  and  a  stare  from  another,  but  from  none  an 
invitation  to  join  the  circle. 

Bob  sidled  up  to  the  bar  where  Kennedy  was  impassively 
waiting.  "  Warmer  out,"  he  advanced. 

Mick  made  no  comment.    "  Something  ?  "  he  suggested. 

BoVs  colorless  eyes  blinked  involuntarily.  "  Yes,  a  bit 
of  rye." 

Mick  poured  a  very  small  drink  into  a  whiskey  glass,  set 
it  with  another  of  water  before  the  customer,  on  a  big 
card  tacked  upon  the  wall  added  a  fresh  line  to  those 
already  succeeding  the  other's  name,  and  leaned  his  elbows 
once  more  upon  the  baK 

Upon  the  floor  of  his  mouth  Bob  Hoyt  laid  a  foundation 
of  water,  over  this  sent  down  the  fiery  liquor  with  a  gulp, 

[  118  ] 


A  Deferred  Reckoning 

and  followed  the  retreat  with  the  last  of  the  water,  uncon 
sciously  making  a  wry  face. 

Kennedy  whisked  the  empty  glasses  through  the  doubt 
ful  contents  of  a  convenient  pail,  and  set  them  dripping 
upon  a  perforated  shelf.  "Found  the  horses  yet?"  he 
queried,  in  ah  undertone. 

Bob  shifted  uncomfortably  and  searched  for  a  place  for 
his  hands,  but  finding  none  he  let  them  hang  awkwardly 
over  the  rail  of  the  bar. 

"  No,  not  even  a  trail." 

"  Looked,  have  you  ?  "  The  single  searchlight  turned 
unwinkingly  upon  the  other's  face. 

"Yes,  I've  been  out  all  day.  Made  a  circle  of  the 
places  within  forty  miles  —  Russel's  of  the  ®,  Stetson's 
of  the  'XI,1  Frazier's,  Rankings  —  none  of  them  have 
seen  a  sign  of  a  stray." 

"That  settles  it,  then.  Those  horses  were  stolen." 
The  red  face  with  its  bristle  of  buff  and  gray  came  closer. 
"  I  did  n't  think  they  'd  strayed.  The  two  best  horses  on 
a  ranch  don't  wander  off  by  chance ;  if  they  'd  been  broncos 
it  might  have  been  different.  It 's  the  same  thing  as  three 
years  ago;  pretty  nearly  the  same  date  too  —  early  in 
January  it  was,  you  remember !  " 

Bob's  long  head  nodded  confirmation.  "  Yes.  We 
thought  then  they'd  come  around  all  right  in  the  next 
round  up,  but  they  didn't,  and  never  have." 

Kennedy  stepped  back,  spread  his  hands  palm  down 
upon  the  bar,  leaned  his  full  weight  upon  them,  and  gazed 
meditatively  at  the  other  occupants  of  the  room.  A  ques 
tion  was  in  his  mind.  Should  he  take  these  men  into 

[119] 


Ben  Blair 

his  confidence  and  trust  to  their  well-known  method  of 
dealing  with  rustlers  —  a  method  very  effective  when  suc 
cessful  in  catching  the  offender,  but  infinitely  deficient  in 
finesse  —  or  depend  wholly  upon  his  own  ingenuity  ?  He 
decided  that  in  this  instance  the  latter  offered  little  hope. 
His  province  was  in  dealing  with  people  at  close  range. 

"  Boys,"  —  his  voice  was  normal,  but  not  a  man  in  the 
room  failed  to  give  attention,  —  "  boys,  line  up !  It 's  on 
the  house." 

Promptly  the  card  games  ceased.  In  one,  the  pot  lay 
as  it  was,  its  ownership  undecided,  in  the  centre  of  the 
table.  The  loungers1  feet  dropped  to  the  floor.  An 
inebriate,  half  dozing  in  the  corner,  awoke.  Well  they 
knew  it  was  for  no  small  reason  that  Mick  interrupted 
their  diversions.  Up  they  came  —  Grover  of  the  far-away 
"  XXX  "  ranch,  who  had  been  here  for  two  days  now,  and 
had  lost  the  price  of  a  small  herd ;  Gilbert  of  the  "  Lost 
Range,"  whose  brand  was  a  circle  within  a  circle ;  Stetson 
of  the  "  XI,"  a  short  heavy-set  man,  with  an  immovable 
pugilist's  face,  to-night,  as  usual,  ahead  of  the  game; 
Thompson,  one-armed  but  formidable,  who  drove  the 
stage  and  kept  the  postoffice  and  inadequate  general 
store  just  across  to  the  north  of  the  saloon ;  McFadden, 
a  wiry  little  Scotchman  with  sandy  whiskers,  Rankin's 
nearest  neighbor  to  the  south ;  a  half-dozen  lesser  lights, 
in  distinction  from  the  big  ranchers  called  by  their  first 
names,  "  Buck  "  or  "  Pete  "  or  "  Bill "  as  the  case  might  be, 
mere  cowmen  employed  at  a  salary.  Elbow  to  elbow  they 
leaned  upon  the  supporting  bar,  awaiting  with  interest 
the  something  they  knew  Kennedy  had  to  say. 

[  120  ] 


A  Deferred  Reckoning 

Kennedy  did  not  ask  a  single  man  what  he  would  have. 
It  was  needless.  Silently  he  placed  a  glass  before  each, 
and  starting  a  bottle  of  red  liquor  at  one  end  of  the  line, 
he  watched  it,  as,  steadily  emptying,  it  passed  on  down 
to  the  end. 

"  I  never  use  it,  you  know,"  he  explained,  as,  the  prep 
aration  complete,  they  looked  at  him  expectantly. 

"  Take  something  else,  then,"  pressed  McFadden. 

Mick  poured  out  a  glass  of  water  and  set  it  on  the  bar 
before  him ;  but  not  an  observer  smiled.  They  knew  the 
man  they  were  dealing  with. 

"All  right,  boys,"  —  McFadden's  glass  went  up  on  a 
level  with  his  eye,  and  one  and  all  the  others  followed  the 
motion,  —  "  all  right,  boys !  Here 's  to  you,  Kennedy  ! "  — 
mouthing  the  last  word  as  though  it  were  a  hot  pebble, 
and  in  unison  the  dozen  odd  hands  led  the  way  to  their 
respective  owners'  mouths.  There  was  a  momentary  pause ; 
then  a  musical  clinking,  as  the  empty  glasses  returned 
to  the  board.  Silence,  expectant  silence,  returned. 

"  Boys,"  —  Mick  looked  from  face  to  face  intimately,  — 
"  we  Ve  got  work  ahead.  Hoyt  here  reported  this  morn 
ing  that  two  of  the  best  horses  on  the  Big  B  were  missing. 
He's  made  a  forty-mile  circuit  to-day,  and  no  one  has 
seen  anything  of  them.  You  all  know  what  that  means." 

Stetson  turned  to  the  foreman.  "  What  time  did  you 
see  them  last,  Hoyt?" 

"  About  nine  last  evening." 

"Sure?" 

Bob's  long  head  nodded  emphatically.  £*Yes,  one  of 
the  boys  had  the  team  out  mending  fence  in  the  afternoon, 

[  12!  ] 


Ben  Blair 

and  when  he  was  through  he  turned  them  into  the  corral 
with  the  broncos.     I  'm  sure  they  were  there." 

"I'm  not  surprised,"  commented  Thompson,  swinging 
on  his  single  elbow  to  face  the  others.  "  It 's  been  some 
time  now  since  we  've  had  a  necktie  party  and  it 's  bound 
to  come.  The  wonder  is  it  has  n't  come  before." 

Gilbert  and  Grover,  comparatively  elderly  men,  said 
nothing,  looked  nothing ;  but  upon  the  faces  of  the  half- 
dozen  cowboys  there  appeared  distinct  anticipation.  The 
hunt  of  a  "  rustler "  appealed  to  them  as  a  circus  does  to 
a  small  boy,  as  the  prospect  of  a  football  game  does  to  a 
college  student. 

Meanwhile,  McFadden  had  been  thinking.  One  could 
always  tell  when  this  process  was  taking  place  with  the 
Scotchman,  from  his  habit  of  tapping  his  chest  with  his 
middle  finger  as  though  beating  time  to  the  movement  of 
his  mental  machinery. 

"Got  any  plan,  Kennedy?"  he  queried.  "  Whoever 's 
done  you  has  got  a  good  start  by  this  time ;  but  if  we  're 
going  to  do  anything,  there 's  no  use  in  giving  him  longer. 
How  about  it  ?  " 

Mick's  single  eye  shifted  as  before,  and  went  from  face 
to  face.  "No,  I  haven't;  but  I've  got  an  idea."  A 
pause.  "  How  many  of  you  boys  remembers  Tom  Blair?" 
he  digressed. 

"  I  do,"  said  Grover. 

"  Same  here."  It  was  Gilbert  of  the  Lost  Range  who 
spoke. 

"  I  Ve  heard  of  him,"  commented  one  of  the  cowboys. 

"  I  guess  we  all  have,"  added  another. 
[122] 


A  Deferred  Reckoning 

Again  Mick's  eye,  like  a  flashlight,  passed  from  man  to 
man. 

"  Well,"  he  announced,  "  I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  've  got 
reason  to  believe  it  was  Tom  Blair  who  did  the  job  last 
night,  and  that  he's  somewhere  this  side  the  river  right 
now." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  while  the  idea  took 
root. 

"  I  supposed  he  was  dead  long  ago,"  remarked  Stetson 
at  last. 

"  So  did  I,  until  a  month  ago  —  until  the  last  time  I 
was  in  town  stocking  up.  I  met  a  fellow  there  then  from 
the  country  west  of  the  river,  and  it  all  came  out.  Blair 's 
been  stampin'  that  range  for  a  year,  and  they  're  suspicious 
of  him.  He  disappears  every  now  and  then,  and  they 
think  he  keeps  in  with  a  gang  of  rustlers  who  have  their 
headquarters  over  in  the  Johnson's  Hole  country  in 
Wyoming.  The  fellow  said  he  kept  up  appearances  by 
claiming  he  owned  a  ranch  on  this  side  —  the  Big  B. 
That's  how  we  came  to  speak  of  him." 

"Queer,"  commented  Stetson,  "that  if  it's  Blair,  he 
has  n't  been  around  before.  It 's  been  ten  years  now  since 
he  disappeared,  has  n't  it  ?  " 

"More  than  that,"  corrected  Mick.  "That's  another 
reason  I  believe  it 's  him  ;  that,  and  the  fact  that  I  did  n't 
do  nothin'  the  last  time  I  was  held  up.  It  must  be  one 
lone  rustler  who's  operating  or  there 'd  be  more'n  a 
couple  of  bosses  missing.  Then  it  must  be  some  feller 
that  knows  the  Big  B,  and  has  a  particular  grudge  against 
it,  or  why  would  they  have  passed  the  Broken  Kettle  or  the 


Ben  Blair 

Lone  Buffalo  on  the  west  ?  Morris  has  a  whole  herd,  and 
his  main  hoss  sheds  are  in  an  old  creek-bed  a  mile  away 
from  the  ranch-house.  I  tell  you  it's  some  feller  who 
knows  this  country  and  knows  me." 

"  I  believe  you're  right  about  him  being  this  side  of  the 
river,"  broke  in  Thompson.  "  When  I  was  over  after  the 
mail  two  days  ago  there  was  water  running  on  the  ice ; 
and  it's  been  warmer  since.  It  must  be  wide  open  in  spots 
now.  A  man  who  knows  the  crossings  might  make  it 
afoot,  but  he  could  n't  take  a  hoss  over." 

Mick's  lone  eye  burned  more  ominously  than  before. 
"  Of  course  he  can't.  He 's  run  into  a  trap,  and  all  we  've 
got  to  do  is  to  make  a  spread  and  round  him  up.  I'll 
bet  a  hundred  to  one  we  find  him  somewhere  this  side, 
waiting  for  a  freeze."  Again  the  half-emptied  bottle  came 
from  the  shelf  and  passed  to  the  end  of  the  line.  "  Have 
another  whiskey  on  me,  boys." 

They  silently  drank.  Then  grim  Stetson  suggested  that 
they  drink  again  —  "  to  our  success  " ;  and  cowboy  Buck, 
not  to  be  outdone,  proposed  another  toast  —  "  to  the  neck 
tie  party — after."  The  big  bottle,  empty  now,  dinned  on 
the  surface  of  the  bar. 

"  By  God  !  I  hope  we  get  him,"  flamed  Grover.  "  He 
ought  to  be  hung,  anyway.  He  killed  his  wife  and  burned 
up  the  body,  they  say,  before  he  left ! " 

"  Someone  must  call  for  Rankin  and  Ben,"  suggested  an 
other,  "  Ben  particularly.  He  ought  to  be  there  at  the 
finish.  Lord  knows  he's  got  grudge  enough." 

"We'll  let  him  pull  the  trap,"  broke  in  Stetson  grimly. 

Of  a  sudden  above  the  confusion  there  sounded  a  snarl, 
[124] 


A  Deferred  Reckoning 

almost  like  the  cry  of  an  animal.  Surprised,  for  the  mo 
ment  silenced,  the  men  turned  in  the  direction  whence  it 
had  come. 

"  Rankin  ! "  It  was  Mick  Kennedy  who  spoke,  but  it 
was  Mick  transformed.  "  Rankin  !  "  The  great  veins  of 
the  bartender's  neck  swelled  ;  the  red  face  congested  until 
it  became  all  but  purple.  "  No  !  We  won't  go  near  him  ! 
He  'd  put  a  stop  to  the  whole  thing.  What  we  want  is 
men,  not  cowards  !  " 

A  moment  only  the  silence  lasted.  "  All  right,"  agreed 
Stetson.  "  Have  another,  boys  !  We  '11  drop  Rankin  ! " 

Anew,  louder  than  before,  broke  forth  the  confusion. 
The  games  of  a  short  time  ago  were  forgotten.  A  heap 
of  coin  lay  on  the  shelf  behind  the  bar  where  Mick,  the 
banker,  had  placed  it ;  but  winner  and  loser  alike  ignored 
its  existence.  The  savage,  ever  so  near  the  surface  of 
these  rough  frontiersmen,  had  taken  complete  possession 
of  them.  Drop  Rankin  —  forget  civilization  —  ignore 
the  slow  practices  of  law  and  order ! 

"  Come  on  ! "  someone  yelled.  "  We  're  enough  to  do 
the  business.  To  the  river ! " 

Instantly  the  crowd  burst  through  the  single  front  door. 
Momentarily  there  followed  a  lull,  while  in  the  half  dark 
ness  each  rider  found  his  mount.  Then  sounded  an  "  All 
ready ! "  from  cowboy  Buck,  first  in  motion,  a  straining  of 
leather,  a  swish  of  quirts,  a  grunting  of  ponies  as  the  spurs 
dug  into  their  flanks,  a  rush  of  leaping  feet,  a  wild  medley 
of  yells,  and  westward  across  the  prairie,  beneath  the  stars, 
there  passed  a  swiftly  moving  black  shadow  that  grew 
momentarily  lighter,  and  back  from  which  came  a  patter, 

[125] 


Ben  Blair 

patter,  patter,  that  grew  softer  and  softer;  until  at  last 
over  the  old  saloon  and  its  companion  store  fell  silenct 
absolute. 

It  was  10:28  when  they  left  Kennedy's  place.  It  was 
12  : 36  when,  without  having  for  a  moment  stopped  their 
long  swinging  gallop,  they  pulled  up  at  the  "  Lone  Buffalo  " 
ranch,  twenty-five  miles  away,  arid  the  last  ranch  before 
they  reached  the  river.  The  house  was  dark  and  silent  as 
the  grave  at  their  approach  ;  but  it  did  not  remain  so 
long.  The  display  of  fireworks  with  which  they  illumined 
the  night  would  have  done  credit  to  an  Independence  Day 
celebration.  The  yells  which  accompanied  it  were  hair- 
raising  as  the  shrieks  from  a  band  of  maniacs.  Instantly 
lights  began  to  burn,  and  the  proprietor  himself,  Grey  — 
a  long  Southerner  with  an  imperial  —  came  rushing  to  the 
door,  a  revolver  in  either  hand. 

But  the  visitors  had  not  waited  for  him.  With  one  im 
pulse  they  had  ridden  straight  into  the  horse  corral,  had 
thrown  off  saddles  and  bridles  from  their  steaming  mounts, 
and,  every  man  for  himself,  had  chosen  afresh  from  the 
ranch  herd.  Passing  out  in  single-file  through  the  gate, 
they  came  upon  Grey ;  but  still  they  did  not  stop.  The 
one  word  "  rustler "  was  sufficient  password,  and  not  five 
minutes  from  the  time  they  arrived  they  were  again  on  the 
way,  headed  straight  southwest  for  their  long  ride  to  the 
river. 

Hour  after  hour  they  forged  ahead.  The  mustangs  had 
long  since  puffed  themselves  into  their  second  wind,  and, 
falling  instinctively  into  their  steady  swinging  lope,  they 
moved  ahead  like  machines.  The  country  grew  more  and 

[126] 


A  Deferred  Reckoning 

more  rolling,  even  hilly.  From  between  the  tufts  of  buffalo 
grass  now  and  then  protruded  the  white  face  of  a  rock. 
Over  one  such,  all  but  concealed  in  the  darkness,  Grovels 
horse  stumbled,  and  with  a  groan,  the  rancher  beneath, 
fell  flat  to  earth.  By  a  seeming  miracle  the  man  arose, 
but  the  horse  did  not,  and  an  examination  showed  the 
jagged  edge  of  a  fractured  bone  protruding  through  the 
hide  at  the  shoulder.  There  was  but  one  thing  to  do. 
A  revolver  spoke  its  message  of  relief,  a  hastily-cast  lot 
fell  to  McFadden,  and  without  a  word  he  faced  his  own 
mount  back  the  way  they  had  come,  assisted  Grover  to  a 
place  behind  him,  turned  to  wish  the  others  good  luck, 
and  found  himself  already  too  late.  Where  a  minute  ago 
they  had  been  standing  there  was  now  but  vacancy.  The 
night  and  the  rolling  ground  had  swallowed  the  avengers 
up  as  completely  as  though  they  had  never  existed ;  and 
the  Scotchman  rode  slowly  back. 

It  was  yet  dark,  but  the  eastern  sky  was  reddening,  when 
they  reached  the  chain  of  bluffs  bordering  the  great  river. 
They  had  made  their  plans  before,  so  that  now  without 
hesitating  they  split  as  though  upon  the  edge  of  a  mighty 
wedge,  half  to  the  right,  half  to  the  left,  each  division 
separating  agjiin  into  its  individual  members,  until  the 
whole,  like  two  giant  hands  whereof  the  cowboys,  half 
a  mile  apart  from  each  other,  were  the  fingers,  moved 
forward  until  the  end  finger  all  but  touched  the  river 
itself. 

Still  there  was  no  pause.  The  details  had  been  worked 
out  to  a  nicety.  They  had  bent  far  to  the  south,  miles 
farther  than  any  man  aiming  at  the  Wyoming  border 

[  127  ] 


Ben  Blair 

would  have  gone,  and  now,  having  arrived  at  the  barrier, 
they  wheeled  north  again.  It  was  getting  daylight,  and 
cowboy  Pete, — in  our  simile  the  left  little  finger,  —  first  to 
catch  sight  of  the  surface  of  the  stream,  waved  in  triumph 
to  the  nearest  rider  on  his  right. 

"  We  've  got  him,  sure  ! "  he  yelled.  "  She 's  open  in 
spots "" ;  and  though  the  others  could  not  hear,  they 
understood  the  meaning,  and  the  message  went  on  down 
the  line. 

On,  on,  more  swiftly  now,  at  a  stiff  gallop,  for  it  was 
day,  the  riders  advanced.  As  they  moved,  first  one  rider 
and  then  another  would  disappear,  as  a  depression  in  the 
uneven  country  temporarily  swallowed  them  up  —  but 
only  to  reappear  again  over  a  prominent  rise,  still  gallop 
ing  on.  They  watched  each  other  closely  now,  searching 
the  surrounding  country.  They  were  nearing  a  region 
where  they  might  expect  action  at  any  moment,  —  the 
remains  of  a  camp-fire,  a  clue  to  him  they  sought,  —  for 
it  was  on  a  line  directly  west  of  the  Big  B  ranch. 

And  they  were  not  to  be  disappointed.  Observing  close 
ly,  Stetson,  who  was  nearest  to  Pete,  saw  the  latter  sud 
denly  draw  up  his  horse  and  come  to  a  full  stop.  At  last 
the  end  had  arrived — at  last;  and  the  rancher  turned 
to  motion  to  his  right.  Only  a  moment  the  action  took, 
but  when  he  shifted  back  he  saw  a  sight  which,  stolid 
gambler  as  he  was,  sent  a  thrill  through  his  nerves,  a  mum 
bling  curse  to  his  lips.  Coming  toward  him,  crazy-scared, 
bounding  like  an  antelope,  mane  flying,  stirrups  flapping, 
was  the  pony  Pete  had  ridden,  but  now  riderless.  Of  the 
cowboy  himself  there  was  not  a  sign.  Stetson  had  not 

[  128] 


A  Deferred  Reckoning 

heard  a  sound  or  caught  a  motion.  Nevertheless,  he  un 
derstood.  Somewhere  near,  just  to  the  west,  lay  death, 
death  in  ambush  ;  but  he  did  not  hesitate.  Whatever  his 
faults,  the  man  was  no  coward.  A  revolver  in  either  hand, 
the  reins  in  his  teeth,  he  spurred  straight  for  the  river. 

It  took  him  but  a  minute  to  cover  the  distance  —  a 
minute  until,  almost  by  the  river's  bank,  he  saw  ahead  on 
the  brown  earth  the  sprawling  form  of  a  dead  man.  With 
a  jerk  he  drew  up  alongside,  and,  the  muzzles  of  big 
revolvers  following  his  eye,  sent  swiftly  about  him  a  sweep 
ing  glance.  Of  a  sudden,  three  hundred  yards  out,  seem 
ingly  from  the  surface  of  the  river  itself,  he  caught  a  tiny 
rising  puff  of  smoke,  heard  simultaneously  a  sound  he 
knew  so  well,  —  the  dull  spattering  impact  of  a  bullet,  — 
realized  that  the  pony  beneath  him  was  sinking,  felt  the 
shock  as  his  own  body  came  to  earth,  and  heard  just  over 
his  head  the  singing  passage  of  a  rifle-ball. 

Unconscious  profanity  flowed  from  the  rancher's  lips  in 
a  stream ;  but  meanwhile  his  brain  worked  swiftly,  and, 
freeing  himself,  he  crawled  back  hand  over  hand  until  a 
wave  in  the  ground  covered  the  river  from  view ;  then 
springing  to  his  feet  he  ran  toward  the  others,  approach 
ing  now  as  fast  as  spurs  would  bring  them,  waving,  shout 
ing  a  warning  as  he  went.  Within  a  minute  they  were  all 
together  listening  to  his  story.  Within  another,  the  rifles 
from  off  their  saddles  in  their  hands,  the  ponies  left  in 
charge  of  lank  Bob  Hoyt,  the  eight  others  now  remaining 
moved  back  as  Stetson  had  come :  at  first  upright,  then, 
crawling,  hand  over  hand  until,  peeping  over  the  interven 
ing  ridge,  they  saw  lying  before  them  the  mingled  ice 
9  [  129  ] 


Ben  Blair 

patches  and  open  running  water  of  the  low-lying  Missouri. 
Beside  them  at  their  left,  very  near,  was  the  body  of  Pete ; 
but  after  a  first  glance  and  an  added  invective  no  man  for 
the  present  gave  attention.  He  was  dead,  dead  in  his 
tracks,  and  their  affair  was  not  with  such,  but  with  the 
quick. 

At  first  they  could  see  nothing  which  explained  the 
mystery  of  death,  only  the  forbidding  face  of  the  great 
river ;  then  gradually  to  one  after  another  there  appeared 
tell-tale  marks  which  linked  together  into  clues. 

"  Ain't  that  a  hoss-carcass  ?  "  It  was  cowboy  Buck  who 
spoke.  "  Look,  a  hundred  yards  out,  down  stream." 

Gilbert's  swift  glance  caught  the  indicated  object. 

"  Yes,  and  another  beyond  —  farther  down  —  amongst 
that  ice-pack  !  Do  you  see  ?  " 

"  Where  ? "  Mick  Kennedy  trained  his  one  eye  like  a 
fieldpiece  upon  the  locality  suggested.  "  Where  ?  Yes  ! 
I  see  them  now  —  both  of  them.  Blair's  own  horse,  if  he 
had  one,  is  probably  in  there  too,  somewhere." 

Meanwhile  Stetson  had  been  scrutinizing  the  spot  on 
the  river's  face  from  which  had  come  the  puff  of  smoke. 

"  Say,  boys  !  "  a  ring  as  near  excitement  as  was  possible 
to  one  of  his  temperament  was  in  his  voice.  "  Ain't  that 
an  island,  that  brown  patch  out  there,  pretty  well  over  to 
the  other  side  ?  I  believe  it  is." 

The  others  followed  his  glance.  Near  the  farther  bank 
was  a  long  low-lying  object,  like  a  jam  of  broken  ice-cakes, 
between  which  and  them  the  open  water  was  flowing.  At 
first  they  thought  it  was  ice ;  then  under  longer  observa 
tion  they  knew  better.  They  had  seen  too  many  other 

[  130] 


A  Deferred  Reckoning 

formations  of  the  kind  in  this  shifting  treacherous  stream 
to  be  long  deceived.  A  flat  sandy  island  it  was,  sure 
enough ;  and  what  they  thought  was  ice  was  driftwood. 

Almost  simultaneously  from  the  eight  there  burst  forth 
an  exclamation,  a  rumbling  curse  of  comprehension.  They 
understood  it  all  now  as  plainly  as  though  their  own  eyes 
had  seen  the  tragedy.  Blair  had  reached  the  river  and, 
despite  its  rotten  ice,  had  tried  to  cross.  One  by  one  the 
horses  had  broken  through,  had  been  abandoned  to  their 
fate.  He  alone,  somehow,  had  managed  to  reach  this  sandy 
island,  and  he  was  there  now,  intrenched  behind  the  drift 
wood,  waiting  and  watching. 

In  the  brain  of  every  cowboy  there  formed  an  unuttered 
curse.  Their  impotence  to  go  farther,  to  mete  out  retri 
bution  to  this  murderer  of  their  companion,  came  over 
them  in  a  blind  wave  of  fury.  The  sun,  now  well  above 
the  horizon,  shone  warmly  down  upon  them.  They  were 
in  the  midst  of  an  infrequent  Winter  thaw.  The  full  cur 
rent  of  the  river  was  between  them  and  the  desperado.  It 
might  be  days,  a  week,  before  ice  would  again  form  ;  yet, 
connecting  the  island  with  the  western  bank,  it  was  even 
now  in  place.  Blair  had  but  to  wait  until  cover  of  night, 
and  depart  in  peace  —  on  foot,  to  be  sure,  but  in  the 
course  of  days  a  man  could  travel  far  afoot.  Doubtless 
he  realized  all  this.  Doubtless  he  was  laughing  at  them 
now.  The  curses  redoubled. 

Stetson  had  been  taking  off  his  coat.  He  now  draped 
it  about  his  rifle-stock,  and  placed  his  sombrero  on  top. 
"  All  ready,  boys,"  he  cautioned,  and  raised  it  slowly  into 
view. 

[131] 


Ben  Blair 

Instantly  from  the  centre  of  the  driftwood  heap  there 
arose  a  tracing  of  blue  smoke.  Simultaneously,  irregular 
in  outline  as  though  punched  by  a  dull  instrument,  a 
jagged  hole  appeared  in  the  felt  of  the  hat. 

As  instantly,  eight  rifles  on  the  bank  began  to  play. 
The  crackling  of  their  reports  was  like  infantry,  the  slid 
ing  click  of  the  ejecting  mechanism  as  continuous  and 
regular  as  the  stamp-stamp  of  many  presses.  The  smoke 
rose  over  their  heads  in  a  blue  cloud.  Far  out  on  the 
river,  under  impact  of  the  bullets,  splinters  of  the  rotted 
driftwood  leaped  high  into  the  air.  Now  and  then  the 
open  water  in  front  splashed  into  spray  as  a  ball  went 
amiss.  Not  until  the  rifle  magazines  were  empty  did  they 
cease,  and  then  only  to  reload.  Again  and  once  again 
they  repeated  the  onslaught,  until  it  would  seem  no  object 
the  size  of  a  human  being  upon  the  place  where  they  aimed 
could  by  any  possibility  remain  alive.  Then,  and  not  until 
then,  did  silence  return,  did  the  dummy  upon  Stetson's 
rifle  again  raise  its  head. 

But  this  time  there  was  no  response.  They  waited  a 
minute,  two  minutes  —  tried  the  ruse  again,  and  it  was  as 
before.  Had  they  really  hit  the  man  out  there,  as  they 
hoped,  or  was  he,  conscious  of  a  trick,  merely  lying  low  ? 
Who  could  tell  ?  The  uncertainty,  the  inaction,  goaded 
all  that  was  reckless  in  cowboy  Buck's  nature,  and  he 
sprang  to  his  feet. 

"I'm  going  out  there  if  I  have  to  walk  on  the  bottom 
of  the  river!"  he  blazed. 

Instantly  Stetson's  hands  were  on  his  legs,  pulling  him 
prostrate. 

[  132] 


A  Deferred  Reckoning 

"Down,  you  fool!"  he  growled.  "At  the  bottom  of 
the  river  is  where  you  'd  be  quick  enough."  The  speaker 
turned  to  the  others.  "One  of  us  is  done  for  already. 
There 's  no  use  for  the  rest  to  risk  our  lives  without  a  show. 
We've  either  potted  Blair  or  we  have  n't.  There 's  nothing 
more  to  be  done  now,  anyway.  We  may  as  well  go  back." 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  murmur  of  dissent,  but  it 
was  short-lived.  One  and  all  realized  that  what  the  rancher 
said  was  true.  For  the  present  at  least,  nature  was  against 
them,  on  the  side  of  the  outlaw ;  and  to  combat  nature 
was  useless.  Another  time  —  yes,  there  would  surely  be 
another  time ;  and  grim  faces  grew  grimmer  at  the  thought. 
Another  time  it  would  be  different. 

"  Yes,  we  may  as  well  go."  It  was  Mick  Kennedy  who 
spoke.  "  We  can't  stay  here  long,  that 's  sure."  He  tossed 
his  rifle  over  to  Stetson.  "  Carry  that,  will  you  ?  "  and  ris 
ing,  regardless  of  danger,  he  walked  over  to  cowboy  Pete, 
took  the  dead  body  in  his  arms,  without  a  glance  behind 
him,  stalked  back  to  where  the  horses  were  waiting,  laid 
his  burden  almost  tenderly  across  the  shoulder  of  his  own 
mustang,  and  mounted  behind.  Coming  up,  the  others, 
likewise  in  silence,  got  into  their  saddles,  not  as  at  starting, 
with  one  bound,  but  heavily,  by  aid  of  stirrups.  Still  in 
silence,  Mick  leading,  the  legs  of  dead  Pete  dangling  at 
the  pony's  shoulder,  they  faced  east,  and  started  moving 
slowly  along  the  backward  trail. 


[  133] 


CHAPTER  XIII 

A  SHOT  IN  THE  DARK 

WINTER,  long  delayed,  came  at  last  in  earnest. 
On  the  morning  of  the  seventeenth  of  January 
—  the  ranchers  did  not  soon  forget  the  date  — 
a  warm  snow,  soft  with  moisture,  drove  tumbling  in  from 
the  east.  All  the  morning  it  came,  thicker  and  thicker, 
until  on  the  level,  several  inches  had  fallen ;  then,  so  rapidly 
that  one  could  almost  discern  the  change,  the  temperature 
began  lowering,  the  wind  shifting  from  the  east  to  the 
north,  from  north  to  west,  and  steadily  rising.  The  sur 
face  of  the  snow  froze  to  ice,  the  snowflakes  turned  to  sleet, 
and  went  bounding  and  grinding,  forming  drifts  but  to 
disperse  again,  journeying  aimlessly  on,  cutting  viciously 
at  the  chance  animal  who  came  in  their  path  like  a  myriad 
of  tiny  knives. 

All  that  day  the  force  of  the  [JR  ranch  labored  in  the 
increasing  storm  to  get  the  home  herds  safely  behind  the 
shelter  of  the  corral.  It  was  impossible  for  cattle  long  to 
face  such  a  storm  ;  but  with  this  very  emergency  in  mind, 
Ran  kin  had  always  in  Winter  kept  the  scattered  bunches 
to  the  north  and  west,  and  under  these  conditions  the 
feat  was  accomplished  by  dusk,  and  the  half-frozen  cow 
boys  tumbled  into  their  bunks,  to  fall  asleep  almost  before 

[IS*] 


A  Shot  in  the  Dark 

they  assumed  the  horizontal.  The  other  ranchers  won 
dered  why  it  was  that  Rankin  was  so  prosperous  and  why 
his  herd  seldom  diminished  in  Winter.  Had  they  been 
observant,  they  could  have  learned  one  reason  that  day. 

All  the  following  night  the  storm  moaned  and  raged, 
and  the  cold  became  more  and  more  intense.  It  came  in 
through  the  walls  of  houses  and  through  bunk  coverings, 
and  bit  at  one  like  a  living  thing.  Nothing  could  stop  it, 
nothing  unprotected  could  withstand  it.  In  the  great 
corral  behind  the  windbreak,  the  cattle,  all  headed  east, 
were  jammed  together  for  warmth,  a  conglomerate  mass 
of  brown  heads  and  bodies  from  which  projected  a  wil 
derness  of  horns. 

The  next  morning  broke  with  a  clear  sky  but  with  the 
thermometer  marking  many  degrees  below  zero.  Out  of 
doors,  when  the  sun  had  arisen,  the  light  was  dazzling. 
As  far  as  eye  could  reach  not  a  spot  of  brown  relieved  the 
white.  The  layer  of  frozen  snow  lay  like  a  vast  carpet 
stretched  tight  from  horizon  to  horizon.  Although  it 
was  only  snow,  yet  so  far  as  the  herds  of  the  ranchers  were 
concerned  it  might  have  been  a  protecting  armor  of  steel. 
Well  did  the  tired  cowboys,  stiff  from  the  previous  day's 
struggle,  know  what  was  before  them,  when  at  daylight 
Graham  routed  them  out.  Food  the  helpless  multitude 
must  have.  If  they  could  not  find  it  for  themselves  it  must 
be  found  for  them  ;  and  in  stolid  disapproval  the  men  ate 
a  hasty  breakfast  by  the  light  of  a  kerosene  lamp  and  went 
forth  to  the  inevitable. 

Rankin  and  Ben  and  Graham  were  already  astir,  and 
under  their  supervision  the  campaign  was  rapidly  begun. 

[  135  ] 


Ben  Blair 

For  a  few  days  the  stock  must  be  fed  on  hay,  and  seven  of 
the  available  fifteen  men  of  the  ranch  force  were  detailed 
to  keep  full  the  great  racks  in  the  cattle  stockade  —  a  task 
in  itself,  with  the  myriad  hungry  mouths  swarming  on 
every  hand,  all  but  Herculean.  The  others,  Rankin  him 
self  among  the  number,  undertook  the  greater  feat  of  in  a 
measure  opening  the  range  for  the  future. 

The  device  which  the  big  man  had  evolved  for  this  pur 
pose,  and  had  used  on  previous  similar  occasions,  was  a 
simple  triangular  snow-plough  several  feet  in  width,  with 
guiding  handles  behind.  Comparatively  narrow  as  was  the 
ribbon  path  cleared  by  this  appliance,  its  length  was  only 
limited  by  the  endurance  of  the  horses  and  the  driver,  and 
in  the  course  of  the  day  many  an  acre  could  be  uncovered. 
Half  an  hour  after  sunrise,  the  eight  outfits  thus  equipped 
were  lined  up  side  by  side  and  headed  due  northwest  to  a 
range  which  had  been  but  little  pastured. 

For  five  miles  straight  as  a  taut  line  they  went,  leaving 
behind  them  eight  brown  stripes  alternating  with  bands  of 
white  between.  Then  back  and  forth,  back  and  forth,  for 
the  distance  of  another  mile  they  vibrated  until  it  was 
noon,  when  eight  more  connecting  brown  ribbons  were 
stretched  beside  their  predecessors  back  to  the  ranch-house. 
In  the  afternoon  the  labor  was  repeated,  until  by  night 
the  clearing,  a  gigantic  mottled  fan  with  an  abnormally 
long  handle,  lay  in  vivid  contrast  against  the  surrounding 
white. 

The  second  day  was  the  same,  except  that  but  seven 
bands  stretched  out  behind  the  moving  squad.  Rankin, 
game  as  he  was,  could  scarcely  put  one  foot  ahead  of  the 

[136] 


A  Shot  in  the  Dark 

other,  and  in  consequence,  changing  his  tactics,  he  mounted 
the  old  buckboard  and  departed  on  a  tour  of  inspection 
toward  the  north  range.  He  was  late  in  returning,  and, 
as  usual,  very  taciturn ;  but  after  supper,  as  he  and  Ben 
were  smoking  in  friendly  silence  by  the  kitchen  fire,  he 
turned  to  the  younger  man. 

"Someone  stayed  at  the  north  range  last  night,""  he 
announced  abruptly.  "  He  slept  there  and  had  a  fire." 

Ben  showed  no  surprise.  "  I  thought  so,  probably,"  he 
replied.  "  Late  this  afternoon  I  ran  across  a  trail  leading 
in  from  the  west  along  our  clearing,  and  headed  that  way. 
It  was  one  lone  chain  of  footprints." 

Rankin  shivered,  and  replenished  the  fire.  His  long 
drive  had  chilled  him  through  and  through. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  an  idea  who  made  that  trail  ?  "  he 
said. 

Though  each  knew  that  the  other  had  heard  the  de 
tails  of  Pete's  death,  neither  had  mentioned  the  incident. 
To  do  so  had  seemed  superfluous.  Now,  however,  each 
realized  the  thought  in  the  other's  mind,  and  chose  not 
to  avoid  it. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Ben,  simply.  "  I  suppose  it  was  made 
by  Tom  Blair." 

Never  before  had  Rankin  heard  Benjamin  Blair  speak 
that  name.  He  stretched  back  heavily  in  his  chair  and 
lit  his  pipe  afresh. 

"  Ben,"  he  said,  "  I  'm  getting  old.  I  never  began  to 
realize  the  fact  until  this  Winter ;  but  I  shaVt  last  many 
more  years."  Puff,  puff  went  two  twin  clouds  of  smoke 
toward  the  ceiling.  "Civilization  has  some  advantages 

[  137  ] 


Ben  Blair 

over  the  frontier,  and  this  is  one  of  them .  it 's  kinder  to 
the  old." 

Never  before  had  Rankin  spoken  in  this  way,  and  the 
other  understood  the  strength  of  his  conviction. 

"  You  work  too  hard,"  he  said  soberly,  though  he  felt 
the  inadequacy  of  the  trite  remark.  "It's  unnecessary. 
I  wish  you  would  n't  do  it." 

Rankin  threw  an  outward  motion  with  his  powerful 
hand.  "  Yes,  I  know  ;  but  when  I  quit  moving  I  want  to 
die.  I  know  I  could  get  a  steam-heated  back  room  in  a 
quiet  street  of  a  sleepy  town  somewhere  and  coddle  myself 
into  a  good  many  years  yet ;  but  it  is  n't  worth  the  price. 
I  love  this  big  free  life  too  well  ever  to  leave  it.  Most  of 
the  people  one  meets  here  are  rough,  but  in  time  that  will 
all  change.  It 's  changing  now ;  and  meantime  nature 
compensates  for  everything." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  and  then,  as  though  there, 
had  been  no  digression,  Rankin  went  back  to  the  former 
subject.  "  Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I  think  you  're  right 
about  those  being  Tom  Blair's  tracks."  He  turned  and 
faced  the  younger  man  squarely.  "  If  it  is,  Ben,  it  means 
he 's  been  frozen  out  from  his  hiding-place,  wherever  that 
is,  and  he 's  crazy  desperate.  He  'd  do  anything  now.  He 
would  n't  ever  come  back  here  otherwise." 

Ben  Blair's  blue  eyes  tightened  until  the  lashes  were  all 
but  parallel. 

"  Yes,"  Rankin  repeated,  "  he 's  crazy  desperate  to  come 
here  at  all  —  especially  so  now."  A  pause,  but  the  eyes 
did  not  shift.  "  God  knows  I  'm  sorry  he  evrr  came  back. 
I  was  glad  we  found  that  trail  too  late  to  follow  it  to-day ; 

i 138 .1 


A  Shot  in  the  Dark 

but  it 's  only  postponing  the  end.  I  believe  he  11  be  here 
at  the  ranch  to-night.  He's  got  to  get  a  horse  —  he's 
got  to  do  something  right  away ;  and  I  'm  going  to  watch. 
If  he  don't  come  1 11  take  up  the  old  trail  in  the  morning." 

Once  more  the  pause,  more  intense  than  words.  "  He 
can't  escape  again,  unless  —  unless  he  gets  me  first  — 
He  must  be  desperate  crazy." 

Rankin  arose  heavily  and  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his 
pipe  preparatory  to  bed. 

"  There  are  a  lot  of  things  I  might  say  now,  Ben,  but 
I  won't  say  them.  We  're  not  living  in  a  land  of  law.  We 
haven't  someone  always  at  hand  to  shift  our  responsi 
bility  onto.  In  self-protection,  we've  got  to  take  justice 
more  or  less  into  our  own  hands.  One  thing  I  will  say, 
though,  and  I  hope  you  '11  never  forget  it.  Think  twice 
before  you  ever  take  the  life  of  another  human  being,  Ben^; 
think  twice.  Be  sure  your  reasons  are  mighty  good  — 
and  then  think  again.  Don't  ever  act  in  hot  blood,  or 
as  long  as  you  live  you'll  know  remorse."  The  speaker 
paused  and  his  breath  came  fast.  Something  more  —  who 
knew  how  much  ?  —  trembled  on  the  end  of  his  tongue. 
He  roused  himself  with  an  effort  and  turned  toward  his 
bunk.  "  Good-night,  Ben.  I  trust  you  as  I  'd  trust  my 
own  son." 

The  younger  man  watched  the  departing  figure  and  felt 
the  irony  of  the  separation  that  keeps  us  silent  even  when 
we  wish  to  be  nearest  and  most  helpful  to  our  friends  and 
makes  our  words  a  mockery. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  I  shall  not  forget.  Good-night,"  he 
said. 

[139] 


Ben  Blair 

When  a  few  minutes  later  the  young  man  sauntered  out 
to  the  barns,  everything  was  peaceful  as  usual.  From  the 
horse-stalls  came  the  steady  monotonous  grind  of  the 
animals  at  feed.  In  the  cattle-yards  was  heard  the  sleepy 
breathing  of  the  multitude  of  cattle.  Perfect  contentment 
and  oblivion  was  the  keynote  of  the  place,  and  the  watcher 
looked  at  the  lethargic  mass  thoughtfully.  He  had  always 
responded  instinctively  to  the  moods  of  dumb  animals. 
He  did  so  now.  The  passive  trustfulness  of  the  great 
herd  affected  him  deeply.  Twice  he  made  the  circuit  of 
the  buildings,  but  finding  nothing  amiss  returned  to  his 
place.  The  sound  of  the  horses  feeding  had  long  since 
ceased.  The  sleepy  murmur  of  the  cattle  was  lower  and 
more  regular.  In  the  increasing  coldness  the  vapor  of 
their  breath,  even  though  the  night  was  dark  and  moon 
less,  arose  in  an  indistinct  cloud,  like  the  smoke  of  smoul 
dering  camp-fires  over  the  tents  of  a  sleeping  army.  For 
two  days  the  man  had  been  doing  the  heaviest  kind  of 
work.  Gradually,  amid  much  opening  and  closing  of  eye 
lids,  consciousness  lapsed  into  semi-consciousness,  and  he 
dozed. 

Suddenly  —  whether  it  was  an  hour  or  a  minute  after 
wards,  he  did  not  know — he  awoke  and  sat  up  listening. 
Some  sound  had  caught  and  held  his  sub-conscious  atten 
tion.  He  waited  a  moment,  intent,  scarcely  breathing, 
and  then  sprang  swiftly  to  his  feet.  The  sound  now  came 
definitely  from  the  sheds  at  the  left.  It  was  the  deep 
chesty  groan  of  a  horse  in  pain. 

Once  upon  his  feet,  Ben  Blair  ran  toward  the  barn,  not 
cautiously  but  precipitately.  He  had  not  grown  to 

[  140  ] 


A  Shot  in  the  Dark 

maturity  amid  animals  without  learning  something  of 
their  language ;  but  even  if  such  had  been  the  case,  he 
could  scarcely  have  mistaken  that  sound.  Mortal  pain 
and  mortal  terror  vibrated  in  those  tones.  No  human 
being  could  have  cried  for  help  more  distinctly.  The 
frozen  snow  squeaked  under  the  rancher's  feet  as  he  ran. 
"  Stop  there ! "  he  shouted.  "  Stop  there ! "  and  throwing 
open  the  nearest  door,  unmindful  of  danger,  he  dashed  into 
the  interior  darkness. 

The  barn  was  eighty  odd  feet  in  length,  and  as  Ben 
swung  open  the  door  at  the  east  corner  there  was  a  flash 
of  fire  from  the  extreme  west  end,  and  a  bullet  splintered 
the  wood  just  back  of  his  head.  His  precipitate  entry  had 
been  his  salvation.  He  groped  his  way  ahead,  the  groans 
of  the  horses  in  his  ears  —  for  now  he  detected  more  than 
one  voice.  A  growing  realization  of  what  he  would  find 
was  in  his  mind,  and  then  a  dark  form  shot  through  the 
west  door,  and  he  was  alone.  Impulse  told  him  to  follow, 
but  the  sound  of  pain  and  struggle  kept  him  back.  He 
struck  a  match,  held  it  like  a  torch  above  him,  moved 
ahead,  stopped.  The  flame  burned  down  the  dry  pine 
until  it  reached  his  fingers,  blackened  them,  went  out ;  but 
he  did  not  stir.  He  had  expected  the  thing  he  saw,  ex 
pected  it  at  the  first  cry  he  heard ;  yet  infinitely  more 
horrible  than  a  picture  of  imagination  was  the  reality. 
He  did  not  light  another  match,  he  did  not  wish  to  see. 
To  hear  was  bad  enough  —  to  hear  and  to  know.  He 
started  for  the  door ;  and  behind  him  three  great  horses, 
hopelessly  maimed  and  crippled,  struggled  to  rise,  and 
failing,  groaned  anew. 


Ben  Blair 

It  seemed  Ben's  fate  this  night  to  be  just  too  late  for 
service.  Before  he  reached  the  exit  there  sounded,  spat 
tering  and  intermittent,  like  the  first  popping  kernels  of 
corn  in  a  pan,  a  succession  of  pistol-shots  from  the  ranch- 
house.  There  was  no  answer,  and  as  he  stepped  out  into 
the  air  the  sound  ceased.  As  he  did  so,  the  kitchen  of  the 
house  sprang  alight  from  a  lamp  within.  There  was  a  mo 
ment  of  apparent  inactivity,  and  then,  the  door  swinging 
open,  fair  against  the  lighted  background,  shading  his  eyes 
to  look  into  the  outer  darkness,  stood  Rankin.  Instantly 
a  wave  of  premonition  flooded  the  watching  Benjamin. 

"  Go  back  !  "  he  shouted.  "  Go  back  !  Back,  quick  ! " 
and  careless  of  personal  danger,  he  started  running  for  the 
ranch-house  as  before  he  had  raced  for  the  barn. 

The  warning  might  as  well  have  been  ungiven.  Almost 
before  the  last  words  were  spoken  there  came  from  the 
darkness  at  Ben's  right  the  sound  he  had  been  expecting 
—  a  single  vicious  rifle  report ;  and  as  though  a  mighty 
invisible  weight  were  crushing  him  down,  Rankin  sank  to 
the  floor. 

Then  for  the  first  time  in  his  history  Ben  Blair  lost  self- 
control.  Quick  as  thought  he  changed  his  course  from  the 
house  to  the  direction  from  which  the  shot  had  come. 
The  great  veins  of  his  throat  swelled  until  it  seemed  he 
could  scarcely  breathe.  Curses,  horrible,  blighting  curses, 
combinations  of  malediction  which  had  never  even  in 
thought  entered  his  mind  before,  rolled  from  his  lips. 
His  brain  seemed  afire.  But  one  idea  possessed  him  — 
to  lay  hands  upon  this  intruding  being  who  had  in  cold 
blood  done  that  fiendish  deed  in  the  barn,  and  now  had 

[142] 


A  Shot  in  the  Dark 

shot  his  best  friend  on  earth.  The  rage  of  primitive  man 
who  knew  not  steel  or  gunpowder  was  his ;  the  ferocity  of 
the  great  monkey,  the  aborigine's  predecessor,  whose 
means  of  offence  were  teeth  and  nails.  Straight  ahead 
the  man  rushed,  seeming  not  to  run,  but  fairly  to  bound, 
turned  suddenly  the  angle  at  the  corner  of  the  machinery 
shed,  stumbled  over  a  snow-plough  drawn  up  carelessly  by 
one  of  the  men,  fell,  regained  his  feet,  and  heard  in  his  ears 
the  thundering  hoof-beats  of  a  horse  urged  away  at  full 
speed. 

For  a  moment  Ben  Blair  stood  as  he  had  risen,  gazing 
westward  where  the  other  had  departed,  but  seeing  nothing, 
not  even  a  shadow.  Clouds  had  formed  over  the  sky,  and 
the  night  was  of  intense  darkness.  To  attempt  to  follow 
a  trail  now  was  waste  of  time ;  and  gradually,  as  he  stood 
there,  the  unevolved  fury  of  the  man  transformed.  His 
tongue  became  silent ;  not  a  human  being  had  heard  the 
outburst.  The  physical  paroxysm  relaxed.  As  he  re 
turned  to  the  ranch-house  no  observer  would  have  de 
tected  in  him  other  than  the  usual  matter-of-fact  rancher ; 
yet  beneath  that  calm  was  a  purpose  infinitely  more 
terrible  than  the  animal  blaze  of  a  few  minutes  before,  a 
tenacity  more  relentless  than  a  tiger  on  the  trail  of  its 
quarry,  than  an  Indian  stalking  his  enemy ;  a  formulated 
purpose  which  could  patiently  wait,  but  eventually  and 
inevitably  would  grind  its  object  to  powder. 

Meanwhile,  back  at  the  scene  of  the  tragedy,  there  had 
been  feverish  action.  Many  of  the  cowboys  were  already 
about  the  barns,"and  lanterns  gleamed  in  the  horse  corral. 
Within  the  house,  in  the  nearest  bunk  where  they  had  laid 

[  143  ] 


Ben  Blair 

him,  stretched  the  proprietor  of  the  ranch.  About  him 
were  grouped  Grannis,  Graham,  and  Ma  Graham.  The 
latter  was  weeping  hysterically  —  her  head  buried  in  her 
big  checked  apron,  the  great  mass  of  her  body  vibrating 
with  the  effort.  As  Ben  approached,  her  husband  glanced 
up.  Upon  his  face  was  the  dull  unreasoning  indecision  of 
a  steer  which  had  lost  its  leader;  an  animal  passivity  which 
awaited  command. 

"  Rankin  's  dead,"  he  announced  dully.  "  He 's  hit  here." 
A  withered  hand  indicated  a  spot  on  the  left  breast.  "  He 
went  quick." 

Grannis  said  nothing,  and  walking  up  Ben  Blair  stopped 
beside  the  bunk.  He  took  a  long  look  at  the  kindly 
heavy  face  of  the  only  man  he  had  ever  called  friend  ;  but 
not  a  feature  of  his  own  face  relaxed,  not  a  muscle 
quivered.  Grannis  watched  him  fixedly,  almost  with  fas 
cination.  Gray-haired  gambler  and  man  of  fortune  that 
he  was,  he  realized  as  Graham  could  never  do  the  emo 
tions  which  so  often  lie  just  back  of  the  locked  counte 
nance  of  a  human  being ;  realized  it,  and  with  the  grim 
carelessness  of  a  frontiersman  admired  it. 

Of  a  sudden  there  was  a  grinding  of  frosty  snow  in  the 
outer  yard,  a  confused  medley  of  human  voices,  a  snorting 
of  horses ;  and,  turning,  Ben  went  to  the  door.  One 
glance  told  him  the  meaning  of  the  cluster  of  cowboys. 
He  walked  out  toward  them  deliberately. 

"Boys,"  he  said  steadily,  "put  up  your  horses.  You 
couldn't  find  a  mountain  in  the  darkness  to-night."  A 
pause.  "  Besides,"  slowly,  "  this  is  my  affair.  Put  them 
up  and  go  to  bed." 

[144] 


A  Shot  in  the  Dark 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence.  The  hearers  could 
scarcely  believe  their  ears. 

"  You  mean  we  Ye  to  let  him  go  ?  "  queried  a  hesitating 
voice  at  last. 

Blair  folded  up  the  broad  brim  of  his  hat  and  looked 
from  face  to  face  as  it  was  revealed  by  the  uncertain  light 
from  the  window. 

"  I  mean  what  I  said,"  he  repeated  evenly.  "  I  '11  attend 
to  this  matter  myself." 

For  a  moment  again  there  was  silence,  but  only  for  a 
moment. 

"No  you  won't!"  blazed  a  voice  suddenly.  "Rankin 
was  the  whitest  man  that  ever  owned  a  brand.  Just  be 
cause  the  kyote  that  shot  him  lived  with  your  mother 
won't  save  him.  I'm  going  —  and  now." 

Quicker  than  a  cat,  so  swiftly  that  the  other  cowboys 
scarcely  realized  what  was  happening,  the  long  gaunt 
Benjamin  was  at  the  speaker's  side.  With  a  leap  he  had 
him  by  the  throat,  had  dragged  him  from  the  back  of 
the  horse,  and  held  him  at  arm's  length. 

"  Freeman,"  —  the  voice  was  neither  raised  nor  lowered, 
but  steady  as  the  drip  of  falling  water,  — u  Freeman,  you 
know  better  than  that,  and  you  know  you  know  better." 
The  grip  of  the  long  left  hand  on  the  throat  tightened. 
The  fingers  of  the  right  locked.  "  Say  so —  quick ! " 

Face  to  face,  looking  fair  into  each  other's  eyes,  stood 
the  two  men,  while  the  spectators  watched  breathlessly  as 
they  would  have  done  at  a  climax  in  a  play.     It  was  a  case 
of  will  against  will,  elemental  man  against  his  brother. 
"I'm  waiting,"  suggested  Blair,  and  even  in  the  dim 
10  [  145  ] 


Ben  Blair 

light  Freeman  saw  the  blue  eyes  beneath  the  long  lashes 
darken.  Instinctively  the  victim's  hand  went  to  his  hip 
and  lingered  there ;  but  he  could  no  more  have  withdrawn 
the  weapon  which  he  felt  there  than  he  could  have  struck 
his  own  mother.  He  started  to  speak ;  but  his  lips  were 
dry,  and  he  moistened  them  with  his  tongue. 
"  Yes,  I  know  better,"  he  admitted  low. 
Ben  Blair  dropped  his  hand  and  turned  to  the  spectators. 
"  Men,"  he  said  slowly  and  distinctly,  "  for  the  present 
at  least  I  'm  master  of  this  ranch,  and  when  I  give  an 
order  I  expect  to  be  obeyed."  Again  his  eye  went  from 
face  to  face  fearlessly,  dominantly.  "  Does  any  other  man 
doubt  me  ? "" 

Not  a  voice  broke  the  stillness  of  the  night.  Only  the 
restless  movement  of  the  impatient  mustangs  answered. 

"  Very  well,  then,  you  heard  what  I  said.  Go  to  bed, 
and  to-morrow  go  on  with  your  work  as  usual.  Grannis 
will  be  in  charge  while  I  'm  gone,"  and  without  a  backward 
glance  the  long  figure  returned  to  the  ranch-house. 

The  weazened  foreman  and  the  tall  adventurer  had  been 
watching  him  impassively  from  the  doorway.  In  silence 
they  made  room  for  him  to  pass. 

"  Grannis,"  he  asked  directly,  "  have  those  horses  been 
taken  care  of  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  See  to  it  at  once  then." 

"Yes,  sir." 

The  blue  eyes  rested  for  a  moment  on  the  other's  face. 

"  You  heard  who  I  said  would  be  in  charge  while  I  'm 
away?" 

[146] 


A  Shot  in  the  Dark 

"  Yes,  sir,"  again. 

Ben  moved  over  to  the  bunk  opposite  to  that  in  which 
lay  the  dead  man  and  took  off  his  hat  and  coat. 

"  Graham  ! " 

The  foreman  came  close,  stood  at  attention. 

"  Keep  awake  and  call  me  before  daylight,  will  you  ?  " 

« I  will." 

"And,  Graham!" 

"Yes." 

"  I  may  be  gone  several  days.  You  and  Ma  attend  to 
the  —  burial.  Dig  the  grave  out  under  the  big  maple." 
A  pause.  "I  think,"  steadily,  "he  would  have  liked  it 
there." 

The  foreman  nodded  silently. 

Benjamin  Blair  dropped  into  the  bunk,  drew  the  blankets 
over  him  and  closed  his  eyes.  As  he  did  so,  from  the 
direction  of  the  barn  there  came  a  succession  of  pistol 
shots  —  one,  two,  three.  Then  again  silence  felL 


I  1*7  ] 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE  INEXORABLE  TRAIL 

ONCE  more,  westward  across  the  prairie  country, 
there  moved  a  tall  and  sinewy  youth  astride  a 
vicious  looking  buckskin.  This  time,  however, 
it  was  very  early  in  the  morning.  The  rider  moved  slowly, 
his  eyes  on  the  ground.  His  outfit  was  more  elaborate 
than  on  the  former  journey.  A  heavy  blanket  and  a  light 
camp  kit  were  strapped  behind  his  saddle,  and  so  attached 
that  they  could  be  quickly  transferred  to  his  back.  A  big 
rifle  was  stretched  across  his  right  knee  and  the  saddle- 
horn.  At  either  hip  rode  a  great  holster.  The  air, 
despite  the  cloudiness,  was  bitter  cold;  and  he  wore  a 
heavy  sheepskin  coat  with  the  wool  turned  in,  and  long 
gauntlets  reaching  half-way  to  his  elbows.  A  broad 
leather  belt  held  the  heavy  coat  in  place,  and  attached  to 
it  was  a  thin  sheath  from  which  protruded  the  stout 
handle  of  a  hunting-knife.  He  also  wore  another  belt, 
fitted  with  many  loops,  each  holding  a  gleaming  little 
brass  cylinder.  No  one  seeing  the  man  this  morning  could 
have  made  the  mistake  of  considering  him,  as  before,  on  a 
journey  to  see  a  lady. 

Slowly  day  advanced.  The  east  resolved  itself  from 
flaming  red  into  the  neutral  tint  of  the  remainder  of  the 
sky.  The  sun  shone  through  the  clouds,  dissipated  them, 

[  148  1 


The  Inexorable  Trail 

was  obscured,  and  shone  again.  The  something  which  the 
man  had  been  watching  so  intently  gradually  grew  clearer. 
It  was  the  trail  of  another  horse  —  a  galloping  horse.  It 
was  easy  to  follow,  and  the  rider  looked  about  him.  After 
a  few  miles,  when  the  mustang  had  warmed  to  his  second 
wind,  a  gauntleted  hand  dropped  to  the  yellow  neck  and 
stroked  it  gently. 

"  Let  'em  out  a  bit,  Buck,"  said  a  voice,  "  let  'em  out ! " 
and  with  a  flick  of  the  dainty  ears,  almost  as  if  he  under 
stood,  the  little  beast  fell  into  the  steady  swinging  lope 
which  was  his  natural  gait,  and  which  he  could  follow  if 
need  be  without  a  break  from  sun  to  sun. 

On  they  went,  the  trail  they  were  following  unwinding 
like  a  great  tape  steadily  before  them,  the  crunch  of  the 
frozen  snow  in  their  ears,  tiny  particles  of  it  flying  to  the 
side  and  behind  like  spray.  But,  bravely  as  they  were 
going,  the  horse  ahead  which  had  unwound  that  band  of 
tracks  had  moved  more  swiftly.  Not  within  inches  did 
the  best  efforts  of  the  buckskin  approach  those  giant 
strides.  It  had  been  a  desperate  rider  who  had  urged 
such  a  pace ;  and  the  grim  face  of  the  tall  youth  grew 
grimmer  at  the  thought. 

Not  another  sound  than  of  their  own  making  did  they 
hear.  Not  an  object  uncovered  of  white  did  they  see, 
until,  thirteen  miles  out,  they  passed  near  the  deserted 
Baker  ranch ;  but  the  trail  did  not  stop,  nor  did  they, 
and  ere  long  it  faded  again  from  view.  The  course  was 
dipping  well  to  the  north  now,  and  Ben  realized  that  not 
again  on  his  journey  would  he  pass  in  sight  of  a  human 
habitation. 

[  149  ] 


Ben  Blair 

All  that  mortal  day  the  buckskin  pounded  monoto 
nously  ahead.  The  sun  rose  to  the  meridian,  gazed  warmly 
down  upon  them,  softened  the  surface  of  the  frozen  snow 
until  the  crunch  sounded  mellower,  and  slowly  descended 
to  their  left.  The  dainty  ears  of  the  pony,  as  the  day 
waned,  flattened  close  to  his  head.  Foam  gathered  be 
neath  the  saddle  and  between  the  animal's  legs ;  but  dog 
gedly  relentless  as  his  rider,  he  forged  ahead.  Much  in 
common  had  these  two  beings;  more  closely  than  ever 
was  their  comradery  cemented  that  day.  Many  times, 
with  the  same  motion  as  at  first,  the  man  had  leaned  over 
and  patted  that  muscular  neck,  dark  and  soiled  now  with 
perspiration.  "  Good  old  Buck,""  he  said  as  to  a  fellow, 
"  good  old  Buck  !  "  and  each  time  the  set  ears  had  flicked 
intelligently  in  response. 

It  was  nearing  sunset  when  they  came  in  sight  of  the 
hills  bordering  the  river,  and  the  last  mile  Ben  drew  the 
buckskin  to  a  walk.  The  chain  of  hoof-tracks  had  changed 
much  since  the  morning.  The  buckskin  could  equal  the 
strides  of  the  other  now,  and  the  follower  was  content. 
The  evenings  were  very  short  at  this  season  of  the  year, 
and  they  would  not  attempt  to  go  farther  to-night.  At 
the  margin  of  the  stream  Ben  rode  along  until  he  found  a 
spot  where  the  full  strength  of  the  current  ate  into  the 
bank.  There  on  the  thinner  ice  he  hammered  with  the 
butt  of  his  heavy  rifle  until  he  broke  a  hole;  then, 
the  dumb  one  first,  the  two  friends  drank  their  fill.  After 
that,  side  by  side,  they  walked  back  until  in  the  shelter  of 
a  high  knoll  the  man  found  a  space  of  perhaps  half  an 
acre  where  the  grass,  thick  and  unpastured,  was  practically 

[  150  ] 


The  Inexorable  Trail 

bare  of  snow.  Here  he  removed  saddle  and  bridle,  and 
without  lariat  or  hobble  —  for  they  knew  each  other  now, 
these  two  —  he  turned  the  pony  loose  to  graze.  He  him 
self,  with  the  kit  and  blanket  and  a  handful  of  dead  wood, 
went  to  the  hill-top,  where  he  could  see  for  miles  around, 
built  a  tiny  fire,  an  Indian's  fire,  made  a  can  of  strong 
black  coffee,  and  ate  of  the  jerked  beef  he  had  brought. 
Later,  he  cleared  a  spot  the  size  of  a  man's  grave,  and 
with  grass  and  the  blanket  built  a  shallow  nest,  in  which 
he  stretched  himself,  his  elbow  on  the  earth,  his  face  in 
his  hand,  thinking,  thinking. 

The  night  came  on.  As  the  eastern  sky  had  done  in 
the  morning,  so  now  the  west  crimsoned  gloriously,  became 
the  color  of  blood,  then  gradually  shaded  back  until  it  was 
neutral  again,  and  the  stars  from  a  few  scattering  dots  in 
creased  in  numbers  and  filled  the  dome  as  scattered  sand- 
grains  cover  a  floor.  Darkness  came,  and  with  it  the  slight 
wind  of  the  day  died  down  until  the  air  was  perfectly 
still.  The  cold,  which  had  retreated  for  a  time,  returned, 
augmented.  As  though  it  were  a  live  thing  moving  about, 
its  coming  could  be  heard  in  the  almost  indistinguishable 
crackling  of  the  snow-crust.  As  beneath  a  crushing  weight, 
the  ice  of  the  great  river  boomed  and  crackled  from  its 
touch. 

Wide-eyed  but  impassive,  the  man  watched  and  listened. 
Scarcely  a  muscle  of  his  body  moved.  Not  once,  as  the 
hours  slipped  by,  did  he  drowse  ;  not  for  an  instant  was 
he  off  his  guard.  With  the  first  trace  of  morning  in  the 
east,  he  was  astir.  As  on  the  night  before,  he  made  his 
Indian's  fire,  ate  his  handful  of  beef,  and  drank  of  the 

[  151] 


Ben  Blair 

strong  black  coffee.  The  pony,  sleepy  as  a  child,  was 
aroused  and  saddled.  The  ice  which  had  frozen  during 
the  night  over  their  drinking-hole  was  broken.  Then, 
both  man  and  horse  stiff  and  sore  from  the  exposure  and 
the  previous  exertion,  the  trail  was  taken  up  anew. 

For  five  miles,  until  both  were  warmed  to  their  work, 
the  man  and  beast  trotted  along  side  by  side.  "Now, 
Buck,  old  boy ! "  said  Ben,  and  mounting,  they  were  off  in 
earnest.  At  first  the  trail  they  were  following  was  that 
of  a  horse  that  walked ;  but  later  it  stretched  out  into  the 
old  long-strided  gallop,  and  the  pursuer  read  the  tale  of 
quirt  and  spur  which  had  forced  the  change. 

Three  hours  out,  thirty  odd  miles  from  the  river  as  the 
rider  calculated  the  distance,  he  came  to  the  first  break  in 
the  seemingly  endless  trail  of  hoofprints  he  was  following. 
A  heap  of  snow  scraped  aside  and  two  brown  spots  on  the 
earth  told  the  story  of  where  the  pursued  man  and  horse 
had  paused  to  rest  and  sleep.  No  water  was  near. 
Neither  the  human  nor  the  beast  had  strayed  from  the 
direct  line ;  they  had  merely  halted  and  dropped  almost 
within  their  tracks.  Just  beyond  was  the  spot  where  the 
man  had  remounted,  where  the  flight  began  anew;  and 
again  a  tale  lay  written  on  the  surface  of  the  snow.  The 
prints  of  the  horse's  feet  were  now  unsteady  and  irregular. 
Within  a  few  rods  there  was  on  the  right  a  red  splash  of 
blood ;  then  others,  a  drop  at  a  time.  Very  hard  it  had 
been  to  put  life  into  the  beast  at  starting;  deep  the 
rowels  of  the  great  spur  had  been  dug.  Ben  Blair  lightly 
touched  the  neck  of  his  buckskin  and  gave  the  word 
to  go. 

[  152] 


The  Inexorable  Trail 

"  They  were  only  thirty  miles  ahead  last  night,  Buck, 
old  chap,"  he  said,  "  and  very  tired.  We  11  gain  on  them 
fast  to-day." 

But  though  they  gained  —  the  record  of  the  tracks  told 
that  —  they  did  not  gain  fast.  Notwithstanding  he  still 
galloped  doggedly  ahead,  the  gallant  little  buckskin  was 
plainly  weakening.  The  eternal  pounding  through  the 
snow  was  eating  up  his  strength,  and  though  his  spirit  was 
indomitable  the  end  of  his  endurance  was  in  sight.  No 
longer  would  the  dainty  ears  respond  to  a  touch  on  the 
neck.  With  head  lowered  he  moved  forward  like  a 
machine.  While  the  sun  was  yet  above  the  horizon,  the 
lope  diminished  to  a  trot,  the  trot  to  a  walk  —  a  game 
walk,  but  only  a  walk. 

Then,  for  the  second  time  that  day,  Ben  dismounted. 
Silently  he  removed  saddle  and  bridle,  transferred  the 
blanket  and  kit  to  his  own  back,  and  then,  the  rifle  under 
his  arm,  stopped  a  moment  by  the  pony's  side  and  laid  the 
dainty  muzzle  against  his  face. 

"  Buck,  old  boy,"  he  said,  "  you  've  done  mighty  well  — 
but  I  can  beat  you  now.  Maybe  some  day  well  meet 
again.  I  hope  we  shall.  Anyway,  we  Ve  better  for  hav 
ing  known  each  other.  Good-bye." 

A  moment  longer  his  face  lay  so,  as  his  hand  would  have 
lain  in  a  friend's  hand  at  parting ;  then,  with  a  last  pat  to 
the  silken  nose,  he  started  on  ahead. 

At  first  the  man  walked  steadily ;  then,  warming  to  the 
work,  he  broke  into  the  swinging  jog-trot  of  the  frontiers 
man,  the  hunter  who  travels  afoot.  Many  Indians  the 
youth  had  known  in  his  day,  and  from  them  he  had  learned 

[  153  ] 


Ben  Blair 

much ;  one  thing  was  that  in  walking  or  running  to  step 
straight-footed  instead  of  partially  sideways,  as  the  white 
man  plants  his  sole,  was  to  gain  inches  at  every  motion, 
besides  making  it  easier  to  retrace  his  steps  should  he  wish 
to  do  so.  This  habit  had  become  a  part  of  him,  and  now 
the  marks  of  his  own  trail  were  like  the  alternately  broken 
line  which  represents  a  railroad  on  a  map. 

As  long  as  he  could  see  to  read  from  the  white  page  of 
the  snow-blanket,  \Ben  Blair  jogged  ahead.  Hot  anger, 
that  he  could  not  repress,  was  with  him  constantly  now, 
for  the  trail  before  him  was  very  fresh,  and,  distinct  beside 
it,  more  and  more  frequent  were  the  red  marks  of  an 
animal's  suffering.  He  knew  what  horse  it  was  the  other 
had  stolen.  It  was  "  Lady,"  one  of  Scotty's  prize  thorough 
bred  mares,  the  one  Florence  had  ridden  so  many  times. 
Often  during  those  last  hours  the  man  wondered  at  the 
endurance  of  the  mare.  None  but  a  thoroughbred  would 
have  stood  up  this  long ;  and  even  she,  if  she  ever  stopped, 
—  but  the  man  ahead  doubtless  knew  this  also,  for  he 
would  not  let  her  stop,  not  so  long  as  life  remained  and 
spur  and  quirt  had  power  to  torture. 

Thus  night  came  on,  folding  within  its  concealing  arms 
alike  the  hunter  and  the  pursued.  Ben  did  not  build  a 
fire  this  night.  First  of  all,  though  during  the  day  at 
different  times  he  had  been  able  to  see  the  bordering  trees 
of  the  White  River  at  his  left  and  the  Bad  River  at  his 
right,  the  trail  hung  to  the  comparatively  level  land  of  the 
great  divide  between,  and  not  a  scrap  of  wood  was  within 
miles.  Again,  although  he  did  not  actually  know,  he 
could  not  believe  he  was  far  behind,  and  he  would  run  no 

[154] 


The  Inexorable  Trail 

risk  of  giving  a  warning  sign  to  eyes  which  must  be  watch 
ing  the  backward  trail.  The  fierce  hunger  of  a  healthy 
animal  was  his ;  but  his  supply  of  beef  was  limited,  and  he 
ate  a  meagre  allowance,  washing  it  down  with  a  draught 
of  river  water  from  his  canteen.  Rolled  up  in  the  blanket, 
through  which  the  stinging  cold  pierced  as  though  it  were 
gossamer,  shivering,  beating  his  hands  and  feet  to  prevent 
their  stiffening,  longing  for  protecting  fur  like  a  wolf  or  a 
buffalo,  keeping  constant  watch  about  him  as  does  a  great 
prairie  owl,  the  interminably  long  hours  of  his  second  night 
dragged  by. 

"  The  beginning  of  the  end,1'  he  soliloquized,  when  once 
more  it  was  light  enough  so  that  standing  he  could  see  the 
earth  at  his  feet.  Well  he  knew  that  ere  this  the  other 
horse  was  eliminated  from  the  chase  —  that  it  was  now 
man  against  man.  God !  how  his  joints  ached  when  he 
stretched  them  !  —  how  his  muscles  pained  at  the  slightest 
motion !  He  ground  his  teeth  when  he  first  began  to 
walk,  and  hobbled  like  a  rheumatic  cripple ;  but  within  a 
half-hour  tenacity  had  won,  and  the  relentless  jog-trot  of 
the  interrupted  line  was  measuring  off  the  miles  anew. 

The  chase  was  nearing  an  end.  Long  ere  noon,  in  the 
distance  toward  which  he  was  heading,  Blair  detected  a 
brown  dot  against  the  white.  Steadily,  as  he  advanced, 
it  resolved  itself  into  the  thing  he  had  expected,  and  stood 
revealed  before  him,  the  centre  of  a  horribly  legible  page, 
the  last  page  in  the  biography  of  a  noble  horse.  Let  us 
pass  it  by :  Ben  did,  looking  the  other  way.  But  a  new 
and  terrible  vitality  possessed  him.  His  weariness  left 
him,  as  pain  passes  under  an  opiate.  He  did  not  pause  to 

[  155  ] 


Ben  Blair 

eat,  to  drink.  Tireless  as  a  waterfall,  watchful  as  a  hawk, 
he  jogged  on,  on,  a  mile — two  miles — five — came  to  a  rise 
in  the  great  roll  of  the  lands  —  stopped,  his  heart  suddenly 
pounding  the  walls  of  his  chest.  Before  him,  not  half  a 
mile  away,  moving  slowly  westward,  was  the  diminutive 
black  shape  of  a  man  travelling  afoot ! 

Instantly  the  primal  hunting  instinct  of  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  awoke  in  the  lank  Benjamin.  The  incomparable 
fascination  which  makes  man-hunting  the  sport  supreme 
of  all  ages  gripped  him  tight.  The  stealthy  cunning  of  a 
savage  became  on  the  moment  his.  A  plan  of  ambush, 
one  which  could  scarcely  fail,  flashed  into  his  mind.  The 
trail  of  the  divide  narrowing  now,  stretched  for  miles  and 
miles  straight  before  them.  That  black  figure  would 
scarcely  leave  it.  The  pursuer  had  but  to  make  a  great 
detour,  get  far  in  advance,  find  a  point  of  concealment, 
and  wait. 

Swift  as  thought  was  action.  Back  on  his  trail  until 
he  was  out  of  sight  went  Ben  Blair ;  then,  turning  to  his 
right,  he  made  straight  for  the  concealing  bed  of  Bad 
River.  Once  there,  he  turned  west  again,  following  the 
winding  course  of  the  stream  toward  its  source.  Faster 
than  ever  he  moved,  the  pat-pat  of  his  feet  on  the  dead 
ening  snow  drowning  the  sound  of  the  great  breaths  he 
drew  into  his  lungs  and  sent  whistling  out  again  through 
his  nostrils.  As  with  the  horse,  the  sweat  oozed  at  every 
pore.  Collecting  on  his  brow  and  face,  it  dripped  slowly 
from  his  great  chin.  Dampening,  his  clothes  clung  bind 
ing-tight  to  his  body ;  but  he  never  noticed.  He  looked 
neither  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  nor  behind  him; 

[156] 


The  Inexorable  Trail 

but,  like  a  sprinter  approaching  the  wire,  only  straight 
ahead. 

Under  him  the  miles  flowed  past  like  water.  Five,  ten, 
a  dozen  he  covered ;  then  of  a  sudden  he  turned  again  to 
the  south,  quitting  his  shelter  of  the  river-bed.  For  a 
time  the  country  was  very  rough,  but  he  scarcely  slackened 
his  pace.  Once  he  fell  through  the  crust  of  a  drift,  and 
went  down  nearly  to  his  neck ;  but  he  crowded  his  way 
through  by  sheer  strength,  emerging  a  powdered  figure 
from  the  snow  which  clung  to  his  damp  clothes.  The 
sun  was  down  now,  and  he  knew  darkness  would  come 
very  quickly  and  he  must  reach  the  divide,  the  probable 
trail,  before  it  fell,  and  there  select  his  point  of  waiting. 

As  he  moved  on,  he  saw  some  miles  ahead  that  which 
decided  him.  A  low  chain  of  hills,  stretching  to  the  north 
and  south,  crossed  the  great  divide  as  a  fallen  log  spans  a 
path.  In  these  hills,  appreciable  even  at  this  distance, 
there  was  a  dip,  an  almost  level  pass.  A  small  diversity 
it  was  on  the  face  of  nature,  but  to  a  weary  man,  fleeing 
afoot,  seen  in  the  distance  it  would  irresistibly  appeal. 
Almost  as  certain  as  though  he  saw  the  black  figure 
already  heading  for  it,  the  hunter  felt  it  would  be  utilized. 
Anyway,  he  would  take  the  chance ;  and  with  a  last  spurt 
of  speed  he  put  himself  fairly  in  its  way.  To  clear  a  nar 
row  strip  of  ground  the  length  of  his  body,  and  build 
around  it  like  a  breastwork  a  border  of  snow,  was  the 
work  of  but  a  few  minutes  ;  then,  wrapped  in  his  blanket, 
too  deadly  tired  to  even  attempt  to  eat,  he  dropped  be 
hind  the  cover  like  a  log.  At  first  the  rest  was  that  of 
Paradise;  but  swiftly  came  the  reaction,  the  chill.  To 

[  157  ] 


Ben  Blair 

lie  there  in  his  present  condition  meant  but  one  thing, 
that  never  would  he  arise  again ;  and  with  an  effort  the 
man  got  to  his  feet  and  started  walking.  It  was  dark 
again  now,  and  the  sky  was  becoming  rapidly  overcast. 
Within  an  hour  it  began  to  snow,  a  steady  big-flaked 
snow  that  fairly  filled  the  air  and  lay  where  it  fell.  The 
night  grew  slightly  warmer,  and,  rolling  in  the  blanket 
once  more,  Ben  lay  down;  but  the  warning  chill  soon 
had  him  again  upon  his  feet,  walking  back  and  forth  in 
the  owe  beaten  path. 

Very  long  the  two  previous  nights  had  been.  Intermin 
able  seemed  this  third.  As  long  as  the  sun  or  moon  or 
stars  were  shining,  the  man  never  felt  completely  alone ; 
but  in  this  utter  darkness  the  hours  seemed  like  days. 
The  steadily  falling  snowflakes  added  to  the  impression  of 
loneliness  and  isolation.  They  were  like  the  falling  clods 
of  earth  in  a  grave :  something  crowding  between  him  and 
life,  burying  and  suffocating  him  where  he  stood.  Try  as 
he  might,  the  man  could  not  shake  off  the  weird  impression, 
and  at  last  he  ceased  the  effort.  Grimly  stolid,  he  lit  his 
pipe,  and,  his  damp  clothing  having  dried  at  last,  cleared 
a  fresh  spot  and  lay  down,  the  horrible  loneliness  still  tug 
ging  at  his  heart. 

Finally,  after  an  eternity  of  waiting,  the  morning  came. 
With  it  the  storm  ceased  and  the  sun  shone  brightly. 
Behind  the  barricade,  Ben  Blair  ate  the  last  of  his  beef 
and  drank  the  few  remaining  swallows  of  water  from  his 
canteen.  His  muscles  were  stiff  from  the  inaction,  and, 
not  wishing  to  show  himself,  he  kicked  vigorously  into 
space  as  he  lay.  At  intervals  he  made  inspection  of  the 

t iss] 


The  Inexorable  Trail 

east,  looking  out  over  the  glitter  of  white ;  but  not  a  liv 
ing  thing  was  in  sight.  An  hour  he  watched,  two  hours, 
while  the  sun,  beating  down  obliquely,  warmed  him  back 
into  activity ;  then  of  a  sudden  his  eyes  became  fixed,  the 
grip  upon  his  rifle  tightened.  Far  to  the  southeast,  some 
thing  dark  against  the  snow  was  moving,  —  was  coming 
toward  him. 

Rapidly  the  figure  approached,  while  lower  behind  the 
barricade  dropped  the  body  of  Benjamin  Blair.  The  sun 
was  in  his  eyes,  so  that  as  yet  he  could  not  make  out 
whether  it  was  man  or  beast.  Not  until  the  object  was 
within  three  hundred  yards,  until  it  passed  by  to  the 
north,  did  Ben  make  out  that  it  was  a  great  gray  wolf 
headed  straight  for  the  bed  of  Bad  River. 

Again  two  hours  of  unbroken  monotony  passed.  The 
sun  had  almost  reached  the  meridian,  and  the  man  behind 
the  barricade  had  all  but  decided  he  must  have  miscal 
culated  somehow,  when  in  the  dim  distance  as  before  there 
appeared  a  tiny  dark  object,  but  this  time  directly  from 
the  east.  For  five  minutes  Ben  watched  it  fixedly,  his 
hand  shading  his  eyes ;  then,  slowly  as  moves  the  second 
hand  of  a  great  clock,  a  change  indescribable  came  over 
his  face.  No  need  was  there  now  to  ask  whether  it  was  a 
human  being  that  was  approaching.  There  was  no  mis 
taking  that  slow,  swinging  man-motion.  At  last  the 
moment  was  approaching  for  which  the  youth  had  been 
striving  so  madly  for  the  last  few  days,  the  moment  he  had 
for  years  been  conscious  would  some  day  come.  It  would 
soon  be  his  ;  and  with  the  thought  his  teeth  set  firmer,  and 
a  fierce  joy  tugged  at  his  heart. 

[  159  ] 


Ben  Blair 

Five  minutes,  ten  minutes  dragged  by  ;  yet  no  observer, 
however  close,  could  have  seen  a  muscle  stir  in  the  long 
body  of  the  waiting  man.  Like  a  great  panther  cat  he 
lay  there,  the  blue  eyes  peering  just  over  the  surface  of  the 
ambush.  Not  ten  paces  away  could  an  observer  have  told 
the  tip  of  that  motionless  sombrero  from  the  protruding 
top  of  a  boulder.  Gradually  the  approaching  figure  grew 
more  distinct.  A  red  handkerchief  showed  clearly  about 
the  man's  neck.  Then  a  slight  limp  in  the  left  leg  in 
truded  itself,  and  a  droop  of  the  shoulders  that  spoke 
weariness.  He  was  very  near  by  this  time,  so  near  that 
the  black  beard  which  covered  his  face  became  discernible, 
likewise  the  bizarre  breadth  of  the  Mexican  belt  above  the 
baggy  chaperejos.  The  crunch  of  the  snow-crust  marked 
his  every  footfall. 

And  still  Ben  Blair  had  not  stirred.  Slowly,  as  the 
other  had  approached,  the  big  blue  eyes  had  darkened 
until  they  seemed  almost  brown.  Involuntarily  the  mas 
sive  chin  had  moved  forward ;  but  that  was  all.  On  the 
surface  he  was  as  calm  as  a  lake  on  a  windless  night ;  but 
beneath,  —  God  !  what  a  tempest  was  raging !  Each  one 
of  those  minutes  he  waited  so  impassively  marked  the  rush 
of  a  year's  memories.  Human  hate,  primal  instinct  all  but 
uncontrollable,  throbbed  in  his  accelerated  pulse-beats. 
Like  the  continuous  shifting  scenes  in  a  panorama,  the 
incidents  of  his  life  in  which  this  man  had  played  a  part 
appeared  mockingly  before  his  mind's  eye.  Plainly,  as 
though  in  his  physical  ear,  he  heard  the  shuffle  of  an  un 
certain  hand  upon  a  latch ;  he  saw  a  figure  with  blood 
shot  eyes  lurch  into  a  rude  floorless  room,  saw  it  approach 

[  160  ] 


The  Inexorable  Trail 

a  bunk  whereon  lay  a  sick  woman,  his  mother ;  heard  the 
swift  passage  of  angry  words,  words  which  had  branded 
themselves  into  his  memory  forever.  Once  more  he  was 
on  all  fours,  scurrying  for  his  life  toward  the  dark  opening 
of  a  protecting  kennel.  As  plainly  as  though  the  memory 
were  of  yesterday,  he  gazed  into  the  blazing  mouth  of  a 
furnace,  felt  its  scorching  breath  on  his  cheek.  Swiftly 
the  changing  scenes  danced  before  his  eyes.  A  rifle-shot, 
real  almost  as  though  he  could  smell  the  burning  powder, 
sounded  in  his  brain.  Within  the  circle  of  light  from  a 
kerosene  lamp  a  great  figure  sank  in  a  heap  to  a  ranch- 
house  floor.  Against  a  background  of  unbroken  white, 
a  trail  of  red  blotches  ended  in  the  mutely  pathetic  figure 
of  a  prostrate  dying  horse  —  a  noble  thoroughbred. 
What  varied  horrors  seethed  in  the  watcher's  brain, 
crowded  each  other,  recurred  and  again  recurred !  How 
the  long  sinewy  fingers  itched  to  clutch  that  throat  above 
the  red  neckerchief !  He  could  see  the  man's  face  now,  as, 
ignorant  of  danger  so  close,  he  was  passing  by  fifty  feet 
to  the  left,  looking  to  neither  side,  doggedly  heading 
toward  the  pass.  With  the  first  motion  since  the  figure 
had  appeared,  the  hand  of  the  watcher  tightened  on  the 
rifle,  raised  it  until  its  black  muzzle  peeped  over  the 
elevation  of  snow.  A  pair  of  steady  blue  eyes  gazed 
down  the  long  barrel,  brought  the  sights  in  line  with  a 
spot  between  the  shoulders  and  the  waist  of  the  unsus 
pecting  man,  the  trigger-finger  tightened,  almost  — 

A  preventing  something,  something  not  primal  in  the 
youth,  gripped  him,  held   him  for  a  second   motionless. 
To  kill  a  man  from  an  ambush,  even  such  an  one  as  this, 
n  [  161  ] 


Ben  Blair 

without  giving  him  a  chance — no,  he  could  not  quite  do 
that.  But  to  take  him  by  the  throat  with  his  bare  hands, 
and  then  slowly,  slowly  — 

As  noiselessly  as  the  rifle  had  raised,  it  dropped  again. 
The  muscles  of  the  long  legs  tightened  as  do  those  of 
a  sprinter  awaiting  the  starting  pistol.  Then  over  the 
barricade,  straight  as  a  tiger  leaps,  shot  a  tall  youth  with 
steel-blue  eyes,  hatless,  free  of  hand,  straight  for  that  list 
less,  moving  figure ;  the  scattered  snow  flying  to  either  side, 
the  impact  of  the  bounding  feet  breaking  the  previous 
stillness.  Tom  Blair,  the  outlaw,  could  not  but  hear  the 
rush.  Instinctively  he  turned,  and  in  the  fleeting  second 
of  that  first  glance  Ben  could  see  the  face  above  the  beard- 
line  blanch.  As  one  might  feel  should  the  Angel  of  Death 
appear  suddenly  before  him,  Tom  Blair  must  have  felt  then. 
As  though  fallen  from  the  sky,  this  avenging  demon  was 
upon  him.  He  had  not  time  to  draw  a  revolver,  a  knife  ; 
barely  to  swing  the  rifle  in  his  hand  upward  to  strike,  to 
brace  himself  a  little  for  the  oncoming  rush. 

With  a  crash  the  two  bodies  came  together.  Simulta 
neously  the  rifle  descended,  but  for  all  its  effectiveness  it 
might  have  been  a  dead  weed-stalk  in  the  hands  of  a  child. 
It  was  not  a  time  for  artificial  weapons,  but  only  for  na 
ture's  own ;  a  war  of  gripping,  strangling  hands,  of  tooth 
and  nail.  Nearly  of  a  size  were  the  two  men.  Both  alike 
were  hardened  of  muscle  ;  both  realized  the  battle  was  for 
life  or  death.  For  a  moment  they  remained  upright, 
clutching,  parrying  for  an  advantage  ;  then,  locked  each 
with  each,  they  went  to  the  ground.  Beneath  and  about 
them  the  fresh  snow  flew,  filling  their  eyes,  their  mouths. 

[  162  ] 


The  Inexorable  Trail 

Squirming,  straining,  over  and  over  they  rolled ;  first  the 
beardless  man  on  top,  then  the  bearded.  The  sound  of 
their  straining  breath  was  continuous,  the  ripping  of  coarse 
cloth  an  occasional  interruption ;  but  from  the  first,  a 
spectator  could  not  but  have  foreseen  the  end.  The  elder 
man  was  fighting  in  self-defence  :  the  younger,  he  of  the 
massive  protruding  jaw  —  a  jaw  now  so  prominent  as  to 
be  a  positive  disfigurement — in  unappeasable  ferocity. 
Against  him  in  that  hour  a  very  giant  could  not  have 
held  his  own.  Merely  a  glimpse  of  his  face  inspired  terror. 
Again  and  again  as  they  struggled  his  hand  had  clutched 
at  the  other's  throat,  but  only  to  have  his  hold  broken. 
At  last,  however,  his  adversary  was  weakening  under  the 
strain.  Blind  terror  began  to  grip  Tom  Blair.  At  first  a 
mere  suggestion,  then  a  horrible  certainty,  possessed  him 
as  to  the  identity  of  the  relentless  being  who  opposed  him. 
Again  the  other's  hand,  like  the  creeping  tentacle  of  an 
octopus,  sought  his  throat,  would  not  be  stayed.  He 
struggled  with  all  his  might  against  it,  until  it  seemed  the 
blood-vessels  of  his  neck  would  burst,  but  still  the  hold 
tightened.  He  clutched  at  the  long  fingers  desperately, 
bit  at  them,  felt  his  breath  coming  hard.  Freeing  his  own 
hand,  he  smashed  with  his  fist  again  and  again  into  that 
long  thin  face  so  near  his  own,  knew  that  another  tentacle 
had  joined  with  the  first,  felt  the  impossibility  of  drawing 
air  into  his  lungs,  realized  that  consciousness  was  deserting 
him,  saw  the  sun  over  him  like  a  mocking  face  —  then 
knew  no  more. 


[163] 


CHAPTER  XV 

IN  THE  GRIP  OF  THE  LAW 

HOW  long  Tom  Blair  was  unconscious  he  did  not 
know.  When  he  awoke  he  could  scarcely  believe 
his  own  senses  ;  and  he  looked  about  him  dazedly. 
The  sun  was  shining  down  as  brightly  as  before.  The 
snow  was  as  white.  He  had  for  some  reason  been  spared, 
after  all,  and  hope  arose  in  his  breast.  He  began  to 
look  around  him.  Not  two  rods  away,  his  face  clearly  in 
sight,  his  eyes  closed,  dead  asleep,  lay  the  figure  of  the 
man  who  had  waylaid  him.  For  a  moment  he  looked  at 
the  figure  steadily ;  then,  in  distinct  animal  cunning,  the 
lids  of  the  close-set  eyes  tightened.  Stealthily,  almost  hold 
ing  his  breath,  he  started  to  rise,  then  fell  back  with  a  jerk. 
For  the  first  time  he  realized  that  he  was  bound  hand 
and  foot,  so  he  could  scarcely  stir.  He  struggled,  at  first 
cautiously,  then  desperately,  to  be  free ;  but  the  straps 
which  bound  him,  those  which  had  held  his  own  blanket, 
only  cut  the  deeper ;  and  he  gave  it  up.  Flat  on  his  back 
he  lay  watching  the  sleeper,  his  anger  increasing.  Again 
his  eyes  tightened. 

"  Wake  up,  curse  you ! "  he  yelled  suddenly. 

No  answer,  only  the  steady  rise  and  fall  of  the  sleeper's 
chest. 

[16*] 


In  the  Grip  of  the  Law 

"  Wake  up,  I  say ! "  repeated  the  voice,  in  a  tone  to 
raise  the  dead. 

This  time  there  was  response  —  of  action.  Slowly  Ben 
Blair  roused,  and  got  up.  A  moment  he  looked  about 
•  him  ;  then,  tearing  a  strip  off  his  blanket,  he  walked  over, 
and,  against  the  other's  protests  and  promises  of  silence, 
forced  open  the  bearded  lips,  as  though  giving  a  horse  the 
bit,  and  tied  a  gag  full  in  the  cursing  mouth.  Without  a 
word  or  a  superfluous  look  he  returned  and  lay  down. 
Another  minute,  and  the  regular  breathing  showed  he  was 
again  asleep. 

During  all  the  warmth  of  that  day  Ben  Blair  slept  on, 
as  a  child  sleeps,  as  sleep  the  very  aged ;  and  although  the 
bearded  man  had  freed  himself  from  the  gag  at  last,  he  did 
not  again  make  a  sound.  Too  miserable  himself  to  sleep, 
he  lay  staring  at  the  other.  Gradually  through  the  haze 
of  impotent  anger  a  realization  of  his  position  came  to 
him.  He  could  not  avoid  the  issue.  To  be  sure,  he  was 
still  alive  ;  but  what  of  the  future  ?  A  host  of  possibilities 
flashed  into  his  mind,  but  in  every  one  there  faced  him  a 
single  termination.  By  no  process  of  reasoning  could  he 
escape  the  inevitable  end  ;  and  despite  the  chilliness  of  the 
air  a  sweat  broke  out  over  him.  Contrition  for  what  he 
had  done  he  could  not  feel  —  long  ago  he  had  passed  even 
the  possibility  of  that ;  but  fear,  deadly  and  absorbing  fear, 
had  him  in  its  clutch.  The  passing  of  the  years,  years  full 
of  lawlessness  and  violence,  had  left  him  the  same  man 
whom  bartender  "  Mick  "  had  terrorized  in  the  long  ago ; 
and  for  the  first  time  in  his  wretched  life,  personal  death 
—  not  of  another  but  of  himself —  looked  at  him  with 

[165] 


Ben  Blair 

steady  eyes,  and  he  could  not  return  the  gaze.  All  he 
could  do  was  to  wait,  and  think  —  and  thoughts  were 
madness.  Again  and  again,  knowing  what  the  result 
would  be,  but  seeking  merely  a  diversion,  he  struggled  at 
the  straps  until  he  was  breathless ;  but  relentless  as  time 
one  picture  kept  recurring  to  his  brain.  In  it  was  a  rope, 
a  stout  rope,  dangling  from  something  he  could  not  dis 
tinctly  recognize  ;  but  what  he  could  see,  and  see  plainly, 
was  a  figure  of  a  man,  a  bearded  man  —  himself —  at  its 
end.  The  body  swayed  back  and  forth  as  he  had  once 
seen  that  of  a  "  rustler  "  whom  a  group  of  cowboys  had 
left  hanging  to  the  scraggly  branch  of  a  scrub-oak  ;  as 
a  pendulum  marks  time,  measuring  the  velocity  of  the 
prairie  wind. 

With  each  recurrence  of  the  vision  the  perspiration 
broke  out  over  the  man  anew,  the  sunburned  forehead 
paled.  This  was  what  it  was  coming  to  ;  he  could  not  es 
cape  it.  If  ever  purpose  was  unmistakably  written  on  a 
human  face,  it  had  been  on  the  face  of  the  man  who  lay 
sleeping  so  near,  the  man  who  had  trailed  him  like  a  tiger 
and  caught  him  when  he  thought  he  was  safe.  From  an 
other,  there  might  still  be  hope ;  but  from  this  one,  Jennie 
Blair's  son  —  The  vision  of  a  woman  lying  white  and 
motionless  on  the  coarse  blankets  of  a  bunk,  of  a  small 
boy  with  wonderfully  clear  blue  eyes  pounding  harmlessly 
at  the  legs  of  the  man  looking  down ;  the  sound  of  a 
childish  voice,  accusing,  menacing,  ringing  out  over  all, 
"You've  killed  her!  You've  killed  her!"  — this  like  a 
chasm  stood  between  them,  and  could  never  be  crossed. 
Clasped  together,  the  long  nervous  fingers,  a  gentleman's 

[166] 


In  the  Grip  of  the  Law 

fingers  still,  twined  and  gripped  each  other.  No,  there 
was  no  hope.  Better  that  the  hands  he  had  felt  about  his 
throat  in  the  morning  had  done  their  work.  He  shut  his 
eyes.  A  hot  wave  of  anger,  anger  against  himself,  swept 
all  other  thoughts  before  it.  Why,  having  gotten  safely 
away,  having  successfully  hidden  himself,  had  he  ever  re 
turned?  Why,  having  in  the  depths  of  his  nest  in  the 
middle  of  the  island  escaped  once,  had  a  paltry  desire  for 
revenge  against  the  man  he  fancied  had  led  the  attack  sent 
him  back  ?  What  satisfaction  was  it,  if  in  taking  the  life 
of  the  other  man  it  cost  him  his  own  ?  Fool  that  he  had 
been  to  imagine  he  could  escape  where  no  one  had  ever  es 
caped  before  !  Fool !  Fool !  Thus  dragged  by  the  long 
hours  of  the  afternoon. 

With  the  coming  of  the  chill  of  evening,  Ben  Blair 
awoke  and  rubbed  his  eyes.  A  moment  later  he  arose, 
and,  walking  over  to  his  captive,  looked  down  at  him, 
steadily,  peculiarly.  So  long  as  he  could,  Tom  Blair  re 
turned  the  gaze  ;  but  at  last  his  eyes  fell.  A  voice  sounded 
in  his  ears,  a  voice  speaking  low  and  clearly. 

"You're  a  human  being,"  it  said.  "Physically,  I'm 
of  your  species,  modelled  from  the  same  clay."  A  long 
pause.  "  I  wonder  if  anywhere  in  my  make-up  there 's  a 
streak  of  such  as  you  ! "  Again  a  moment  of  silence,  in 
which  the  elder  man  felt  the  blue  eyes  of  the  younger 
piercing  him  through  and  through.  "  If  I  thought  there 
was  a  trace,  or  the  suggestion  of  a  trace,  before  God,  I  'd 
kill  you  and  myself,  and  I  'd  do  it  now !  "  The  speaker 
scanned  the  prostrate  figure  from  head  to  foot,  and  back 
again.  "  And  do  it  now,"  he  repeated. 

[  167  ] 


Ben  Blair 

Silence  fell;  and  in  it,  though  he  dared  not  look, 
coward  Tom  Blair  fancied  he  heard  a  movement,  im 
agined  the  other  man  about  to  put  the  threat  into 
execution. 

"  No,  no ! "  he  pleaded.  "  People  are  different  —  dif 
ferent  as  day  and  night.  You  belong  to  your  mother's 
kind,  and  she  was  good  and  pure."  Every  trace  of  the 
man's  nerve  was  gone.  But  one  instinct  was  active  —  to 
placate  this  relentless  being,  his  captor.  He  fairly  grov 
elled.  "  I  swear  she  was  pure.  I  swear  it ! " 

Without  speaking  a  word,  Ben  turned.  Going  back  to 
his  snow-blind,  he  packed  his  blanket  and  camp  kit  swiftly 
and  strapped  them  to  his  shoulders.  Returning,  he  gath 
ered  the  things  he  had  found  upon  the  other's  person  — 
the  rifle,  the  revolvers,  the  sheath-knife  —  into  a  pile; 
then  deliberately,  one  against  the  other,  he  broke  them 
until  they  were  useless.  Only  the  blanket  he  preserved, 
tossing  it  down  by  the  side  of  the  prostrate  figure. 

"  Tom  Blair,"  he  said,  no  indication  now  that  he  had 
ever  been  nearer  to  the  other  than  a  stranger,  "Tom 
Blair,  I  Ve  got  a  few  things  to  say  to  you,  and  if  you  're 
wise  you'll  listen  carefully,  for  I  sha'n't  repeat  them. 
You  're  going  with  me,  and  you  're  going  free ;  but  if  you 
try  to  escape,  or  cause  me  trouble,  as  sure  as  I'm  alive  this 
minute  I  '11  strip  off  every  stitch  of  clothing  you  wear  and 
leave  you  where  I  catch  you  though  the  snow  be  up  to 
your  waist." 

Slowly  he  reached  over  and  untied  first  the  feet  then 
Jhe  hands.  "Get  up,"  he  ordered. 

Tom  Blair  arose,  stretched  himself  stiffly. 
[168J 


In  the  Grip  of  the  Law 

**  Take  that,"  Ben  indicated  the  blanket,  "  and  go  ahead 
straight  for  the  river."" 

The  bearded  man  obeyed.  To  have  secured  his  free 
dom  he  could  not  have  done  otherwise. 

For  ten  minutes  they  moved  ahead,  only  the  crunching 
snow  breaking  the  stillness. 

"Trot!  "said  Ben. 

« I  can't." 

"  Trot !  "     There  was  no  misunderstanding  the  tone. 

In  single  file  they  jogged  ahead,  reached  the  river,  and 
descended  to  the  level  surface  of  its  bed. 

"  Keep  to  the  middle,  and  go  straight  ahead." 

On  they  went  —jog,  jog,  jog. 

Of  a  sudden  from  under  cover  of  the  bank  a  frightened 
cottontail  sprang  forth  and  started  running.  Instantly 
there  was  the  report  of  a  big  revolver,  and  Tom  jumped 
as  though  he  felt  the  bullet  in  his  back.  Again  the  report 
sounded,  and  this  time  the  rabbit  rolled  over  and  over  in 
the  snow. 

Without  stopping,  Ben  picked  up  the  still  struggling 
game  and  slipped  a  couple  of  fresh  cartridges  into  the 
empty  revolver  chambers.  The  banks  were  lined  with 
burrows  and  tracks,  and  within  five  minutes  a  second  cot 
tontail  met  the  fate  of  the  first. 

"  Come  back  !  "  called  Ben  to  the  man  ahead. 

Again  Tom  obeyed.  He  would  have  gone  barefoot  in 
the  snow  without  a  question  now. 

"  Can  you  make  a  fire  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Do  it,  then.     I  left  the  matches  in  your  pocket." 
[  169  J 


Ben  Blair 

On  opposite  sides  of  the  fire,  from  long  forked  sticks 
of  green  ash,  they  broiled  strips  of  the  meat  which  Ben 
dressed  and  cut.  Likewise  fronting  each  other,  they  ate 
in  silence.  Darkness  was  falling,  and  the  glow  from  the 
embers  lit  their  faces  like  those  of  two  friends  camping 
after  a  day's  hunt.  Had  it  not  all  been  such  deadly  earn 
est,  the  scene  would  have  been  farce-comedy.  Suddenly 
Tom  Blair  raised  his  eyes. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  with  me  ? "  he  asked 
directly. 

Ben  said  nothing. 

The  question  was  not  repeated,  but  another  trembled 
on  the  speaker's  lips.  At  last  it  found  words. 

"  When  you  had  me  down  I  —  I  thought  you  had  done 
for  me.  Why  did  you  —  let  me  up  ?  " 

A  pause  followed.  Then  Ben's  blue  eyes  raised  and  met 
the  other's. 

"  You  'd  really  like  to  know  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

Another  moment  of  hesitation,  but  the  youth's  eyes  did 
not  move.  "  Very  well,  I'll  tell  you."  More  to  himself 
than  to  the  other  he  was  speaking.  His  voice  softened 
unconsciously.  "  A  girl  saved  you  that  time,  Tom  Blair, 
a  girl  you  never  saw.  You  have  n't  any  idea  what  it 
means,  but  I  love  that  girl,  and  I  could  never  look  her 
in  the  face  again  with  blood  on  my  hands,  even  such  blood 
as  yours.  That 's  the  reason." 

For  a  moment  Tom  Blair  was  silent  ;  then  into  his 
brain  there  flashed  a  suggestion,  and  he  grasped  at  it  as 
a  drowning  man  at  a  straw. 

[170] 


In  the  Grip  of  the  Law 

"  Would  n't  it  be  blood  on  your  hands  just  the  same 
if  you  take  me  back  where  we  're  headed,  back  to  Mick 
Kennedy  and  —  " 

With  a  single  motion,  swift  as  though  raised  by  a  spring, 
Ben  was  upon  his  feet. 

"  Pick  up  your  blanket  !  " 


"  Silence  !  "  The  big  square  jaw  shot  forward  like  the 
piston  of  an  engine.  "  Not  another  word  of  that,  now  or 
ever.  Not  another  word  .'  " 

For  a  second  the  other  paused  doggedly,  then  taking  up 
his  load  he  moved  ahead  into  the  shadow. 

Hour  after  hour  they  advanced,  alternately  walking  and 
trotting,  following  the  winding  bed  of  the  stream.  Dark 
ness  fell,  until  they  could  not  see  each  other's  faces,  until 
they  were  merely  two  black  passing  shadows  ;  but  the 
figure  behind  was  relentless.  Stimulating,  compelling,  he 
forced  himself  close.  Ever  and  anon  they  could  hear  the 
frightened  dash  of  a  rabbit  away  from  their  path.  More 
than  once  a  snow-owl  fluttered  over  their  heads  ;  but  they 
took  no  notice.  Twice  the  man  in  advance  stumbled  and 
fell  ;  but  though  Ben  paused  he  spoke  no  word.  Like  a 
soldier  of  the  ranks  on  secret  forced  march,  ignorant  of  his 
destination,  given  only  conjecture  as  to  what  the  morrow 
would  bring  forth,  Tom  Blair  panted  ahead. 

With  the  coming  of  daylight  Ben  slowed  to  a  walk,  and 
looked  about  in  quest  of  breakfast.  Game  was  plentiful 
along  the  shelter  of  the  stream,  and  before  they  had  ad 
vanced  a  half-mile  farther  he  saw  ahead  a  flock  of  grouse 
roosting  in  the  diverging  branches  of  a  cottonwood  tree. 

[171] 


Ben  Blair 

At  two  hundred  yards,  selecting  those  on  the  lowest 
branches,  he  dropped  half  a  dozen,  one  after  the  other, 
with  the  rifle;  and  still  the  remainder  of  the  flock  did  not 
fly.  Very  different  were  they  from  the  open-land  prairie 
chicken,  whom  a  mere  sound  will  send  a-wing. 

As  on  the  night  before,  they  broiled  each  what  he 
wished,  and,  carefully  cleaning  the  others,  Ben  packed 
them  with  his  kit.  Then,  stolid  as  an  Indian,  he  cleared 
a  spot  of  earth,  and  wrapping  himself  in  his  blanket  lay 
down  full  in  the  sunshine,  smoking  his  pipe  impassively. 
Taking  the  cue,  Tom  Blair  likewise  curled  up  like  a  dog 
near  at  hand. 

Slowly  and  more  slowly  came  the  putts  of  smoke  from 
the  captor's  pipe;  at  last  they  ceased  entirely.  The  lids 
of  the  youth's  eyes  closed,  his  breath  came  deep  and 
regular.  Beneath  the  blanket  a  muscle  here  and  there 
twitched  involuntarily,  as  in  one  who  is  very  weary  and 
asleep. 

An  hour  passed,  an  hour  without  a  sound  ;  then,  looking 
closely,  a  spectator  could  have  seen  one  of  Tom  Blair's  eyes 
open  and  close  furtively.  Again  it  opened,  and  its  mate 
as  well  —  to  remain  so.  For  a  minute,  two  minutes,  they 
studied  the  companion  face  uncertainly,  suspiciously,  then 
savagely.  Another  minute,  and  the  body  had  risen  to 
hands  and  knees.  Still  Ben  did  not  stir,  still  the  great  ex 
panse  of  his  chest  rose  and  fell.  Tom  Blair  was  satisfied. 
Hand  over  hand,  feeling  his  way  like  a  cat,  he  advanced 
toward  the  prostrate  figure.  Despite  his  caution,  the 
crust  of  the  snow  crackled  once  beneath  his  touch,  and  he 
paused,  a  soundless  curse  forming  upon  his  lips ;  but  the 

[  172  ] 


In  the  Grip  of  the  Law 

warning  passed  unheeded,  and,  bolder  than  before,  he  pad 
ded  on. 

Eight  feet  he  gained,  then  ten.  His  color  heightened, 
the  repressed  arteries  throbbed  above  the  gaudy  necker 
chief,  the  skulking  animal  intensified  in  the  tightened 
muscles  of  the  temples.  As  many  feet  again  ;  but  a  few 
more  minutes — then  liberty  and  life.  The  better  to  guard 
his  movements,  his  gaze  fell.  Out  and  down  went  his 
right  hand,  then  his  left,  as  his  lithe  body  slid  forward. 
Again  he  glanced  up,  paused  —  and  on  the  instant  every 
muscle  of  his  tense  body  went  suddenly  lax.  Instead  of 
the  closed  eyes  and  sleeping  face  he  had  expected,  two 
steady  eyes  were  giving  him  back  look  for  look.  There 
had  not  been  a  motion ;  the  face  was  yet  that  of  a  sleeper ; 
the  chest  still  rose  and  fell  steadily ;  but  the  eyes ! 

Tom  Blair's  teeth  ground  each  other  like  those  of  a  dog 
with  rabies.  The  suggestion  of  froth  came  to  his  lips. 

"  Curse  you  ! "  he  cried.     "  Curse  you  forever !  " 

A  moment  they  lay  so,  a  moment  wherein  the  last  ves 
tige  of  hope  left  the  mind  of  the  captive  ;  but  in  it  Ben 
Blair  spoke  no  word.  Maddening,  immeasurably  worse 
than  denunciation,  was  that  relentless  silence.  It  was 
uncanny ;  and  the  bearded  man  felt  the  hairs  of  his  head 
rising  as  the  mane  of  a  dog  or  a  wolf  lifts  at  a  sound 
it  does  not  understand. 

"  Say  something,"  he  pleaded  desperately.  "  Shoot  me, 
kill  me,  do  anything  —  but  don't  look  at  me  like  that !  " 
and,  fairly  writhing,  he  crawled  back  to  his  blanket  and 
buried  his  head  in  its  depths. 

With  the  coming  of  evening  coolness,  Ben  again  made 
[  173  ] 


Ben  Blair 

preparation  for  the  journey.  Neither  of  the  men  made 
reference  to  the  incidents  of  the  day,  but  on  Tom  Blair's 
face  there  was  a  new  expression,  like  that  of  a  criminal  on 
his  passage  from  the  cell  to  the  hangman's  trap.  If  the 
younger  man  saw  it,  he  gave  no  sign ;  and  as  on  the  night 
before,  they  jogged  ahead.  Before  daylight  broke,  the 
comparatively  smooth  bed  of  Bad  River  merged  into  the 
irregular  surface  of  the  Missouri.  Then  they  halted. 
Why  they  stopped  there,  Tom  Blair  could  not  at  the  time 
tell;  but  with  the  coming  of  daylight  he  understood. 
Where  he  had  crossed  and  Ben  had  followed  there  was  not 
now  a  single  track,  but  many  —  a  score  at  least.  At  the 
margin  of  the  stream,  where  the  cavalcade  had  stopped,  the 
snow  was  tramped  hard  as  a  stockade ;  and  in  the  centre  of 
the  beaten  place,  distinct  against  the  white,  was  a  dark 
spot  where  a  great  camp-fire  had  been  built.  At  the  river 
the  party  had  stopped.  Obviously,  there  the  last  snow  had 
obliterated  the  trail,  and,  seeing  that  they  had  turned 
back,  Tom  Blair  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  Whatever  the  fu 
ture  had  in  store  for  him,  it  could  reveal  nothing  so  fearful 
as  a  meeting  with  those  whom  intuition  told  him  had 
made  up  that  party. 

But  his  relief  was  short-lived.  Again,  after  they  had 
breakfasted  from  the  grouse  in  the  pack,  Ben  ordered 
the  onward  march,  along  the  bank  of  the  great  river. 
As  they  moved  ahead,  a  realization  of  their  destination 
at  last  came  to  the  captive,  and  for  the  first  time  he 
balked. 

"  Do  what  you  wish  with  me,"  he  cried.  "  I  '11  not 
go  a  step  farther." 

[174] 


In  the  Grip  of  the  Law 

They  were  perhaps  a  mile  down  the  river.  The  border 
ing  hills  enclosed  them  like  an  arena. 

"  Very  well."  Ben  Blair  spoke  as  though  the  occur 
rence  were  one  of  every-day  repetition.  "  Give  me  your 
clothes!" 

Tom's  face  settled  stubbornly. 

"  You  11  have  to  take  them." 

The  youth's  hand  sought  his  hip,  and  a  bullet  spat  at 
the  snow  within  three  inches  of  the  other's  feet.  There 
was  a  meaning  pause.  Slowly  the  bravado  left  the  other's 
face. 

"  Don't  keep  me  waiting !  "  urged  Ben. 

Slowly,  very  slowly,  off  came  the  captive's  coat  and  vest. 
Despite  his  efforts,  the  hands  which  loosened  the  buttons 
trembled  uncontrollably.  Following  the  vest  came  the 
shirt,  then  a  shoe,  and  the  sock  beneath.  His  foot  touched 
the  snow.  For  the  first  time  a  faint  realization  of  the 
thing  he  was  choosing  came  to  him.  The  vicious  bite  of 
the  frost  upon  the  bare  skin  was  not  a  possibility  of  the 
future,  but  a  condition  of  the  immediate  now  ;  and  he 
weakened.  But  in  the  moment  of  his  indecision,  the  wave 
of  stubbornness  and  of  blinding  hate  again  flooded  him, 
and  a  rush  of  hot  curses  left  his  lips. 

For  a  moment,  the  last  time  in  their  lives,  the  two  men 
eyed  each  other  fairly.  Indescribable  hate  was  written 
upon  one  face ;  the  other  was  as  blank  as  the  surrounding 
snow.  Its  very  immobility  chilled  Tom  Blair  and  cowed 
him  into  silence.  Without  a  word  he  replaced  shoe  and 
coat  and  took  up  his  blanket.  An  advancing  step  sounded 
behind  him,  and,  understanding,  he  moved  ahead.  After 

[175] 


Ben  Blair 

a  while  the  foot-fall  again  gained  upon  him,  and  once 
more  the  walk  merged  into  the  interminable  jog-jog  of  the 
back-trail. 

It  was  morning  when  the  two  began  that  last  relay.  It 
was  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  they  arrived  amid 
the  outskirts  of  the  scattered  prairie  terminus  which  was 
their  destination.  Within  ten  minutes  thereafter  the  two 
had  separated.  The  older  man,  in  charge  of  a  lank, 
unshaven  frontiersman,  chiefly  noticeable  from  a  quid  of 
tobacco  which  swelled  one  cheek  like  an  abscess,  and  a 
nickle-plated  star  which  he  wore  on  the  lapel  of  his  coat, 
was  headed  for  the  pretentious  white  painted  building 
known  as  the  court-house.  The  younger,  catching  sight 
of  a  wind-twisted  sign  lettered  "Hotel,"  made  for  it  as 
though  sighting  the  promised  land.  In  the  office,  as  he 
passed  through,  was  a  crowd  of  men  entirely  too  large 
to  have  gathered  by  chance  in  a  frontier  hostelry,  who 
eyed  him  peculiarly;  but  he  took  no  notice,  and  five 
minutes  later,  upon  the  bedraggled  bed  of  the  unplas- 
tered  upper  room  that  the  landlord  gave  him,  without 
even  his  boots  removed,  he  was  deep  in  the  realm  of 
oblivion. 

Some  time  later  —  he  had  no  idea  of  the  hour  save 
that  all  was  dark  —  he  was  awakened  by  a  confusion  of 
voices  in  the  room  below,  a  slamming  of  doors,  a  thump 
ing  of  great  boots  upon  the  bare  floor.  Scarcely  remem 
bering  his  whereabouts,  he  rolled  from  his  bed  and  thrust 
his  head  eut  of  the  narrow  window.  Here  and  there 
about  the  town  were  scattered  lights  —  some  stationary, 
others,  which  he  took  to  be  lanterns,  moving.  On  the 

[176] 


In  the  Grip  of  the  Law 

street  beneath  his  window  two  men  went  by  on  a  run. 
Half  way  up  the  block,  before  the  well-lighted  front  of  a 
saloon,  a  motley  crowd  was  shifting  back  and  forth,  rest 
less  as  ants  in  a  hill,  the  murmur  of  their  voices  sounding 
menacing  as  the  distant  hum  of  swarming  bees.  All  at 
once  from  out  the  door  there  burst  fair  into  the  crowd  a 
heavy  man  with  great  shoulders  and  a  bull  neck.  About 
him,  even  in  the  uncertain  light,  there  seemed  to  the 
watcher  something  very  familiar.  What  he  said,  Ben 
could  not  understand ;  but  he  turned  his  head  this  way 
and  that,  and  his  motions  were  unmistakable.  The  crowd 
made  way  before  him  as  sheep  before  a  dog,  and  closing 
behind  followed  steadily  in  his  wake.  Gradually  as  the 
leader  advanced  the  mass  gained  momentum.  At  first 
the  pace  had  been  a  slow  walk.  In  the  space  of  seconds 
it  became  a  swift  one,  then  a  run,  with  a  wild  scramble 
by  those  in  the  rear  to  gain  front  place.  The  frozen 
ground  rumbled  under  their  rushing  feet.  The  direction 
of  their  movement,  at  first  uncertain,  became  definite.  It 
was  a  direct  line  for  the  centrally  located  court-house ; 
and,  no  longer  doubtful  of  their  purpose,  Ben  left  the 
window,  fairly  tumbled  downstairs,  and  rushed  through 
the  now  deserted  office  into  the  equally  deserted  street. 

The  court-house  square  was  but  two  blocks  away ;  but 
the  mob  had  a  good  lead,  and  when  the  youth  arrived  he 
found  the  space  within  the  surrounding  chain  fence  fairly 
covered.  Where  the  people  could  all  have  come  from 
struck  him  even  at  that  moment  as  a  mystery.  Certainly 
all  told  the  town  could  not  in  itself  have  mustered  half 
the  number.  Elbowing  his  way  among  them,  however, 
i»  [177] 


Ben  Blair 

he  began  soon  to  understand.  Here  and  there  among  the 
mass  he  caught  sight  of  familiar  faces,  —  Russell  of  the 
@  Ranch,  Stetson  of  the  "  XI,"  each  taking  no  part,  but 
with  hats  slouched  low  over  their  eyes  watching  every 
movement  of  the  drama.  Passing  around  a  jam  he  could 
not  press  through,  Ben  felt  a  detaining  hand  upon  his  arm, 
and  turning,  he  was  face  to  face  with  Grannis.  The  grip 
of  the  overseer  tightened. 

"  I  Ve  been  looking  for  you,  Blair,11  he  said.  "  I  know 
what  youVe  been  trying  to  do,  but  most  of  the  crowd 
don't  and  won't.  They  Ve  ugly.  You  'd  better  keep  back." 

For  answer  Ben  eyed  the  cowboy  squarely. 

"  I  thought  I  left  you  in  charge  of  the  ranch,"  he  said 
evenly. 

The  weather-stained  face  of  the  foreman  reddened  in 
the  shifting  lantern  light,  but  the  eyes  did  not  drop. 

"I  have  been.  I  just  got  here."  A  dignity  which  well 
became  him  spoke  in  the  steady  voice.  "  I  had  a  reason 
for  coming." 

Ben  released  his  gaze. 

"  The  others  are  here  too  ?  " 

"  No,  they  Ve  all  at  the  ranch.  Graham  and  I  attended 
to  that." 

"  I  just  saw  Russell  and  Stetson.  They  could  n't  pos 
sibly  have  got  here  to-day  from  home.  Has  —  has  this 
been  planned  ?  " 

Grannis  nodded.  "  Yes.  Kennedy  and  his  gang  have 
been  watching  here  and  at  the  ranch  for  days.  They 
thought  you  \1  show  up  at  one  place  or  the  other.  The 
whole  country  is  out.  There  are  lots  of  strangers  here, 

[178] 


In  the  Grip  of  the  Law 

from  ranches  I  never  heard  of  before.  Seems  as  though 
everybody  knew  Rankin  and  heard  of  his  being  shot. 
You  'd  better  let  them  have  it  their  way.  It  11  amount 
to  the  same  in  the  end,  and  death  itself  couldn't  stop 
them  now." 

He  took  a  step  forward ;  for  Ben,  understanding  all, 
had  at  last  moved  on. 

"Blair!""  he  called  after  him,  again  extending  a  de 
taining  hand.  His  voice  took  on  a  new  note  —  intimate, 
personal,  a  tone  of  which  no  one  would  have  thought  it 
capable.  "  Blair,  listen  to  me !  Stop ! " 

But  he  might  as  well  have  spoken  to  the  swiftly  flowing 
water  beneath  the  ice  of  the  great  river.  Of  a  sudden, 
from  out  a  passage  leading  into  the  cell-room  of  the  court 
house  basement,  a  black  swarm  of  men  had  emerged,  bear 
ing  by  sheer  animal  force  a  struggling  object  in  their 
midst.  The  silence  of  those  who  waited,  the  lull  before 
the  storm,  on  the  instant  ended.  A  very  Babel  of  voices 
took  its  place.  By  common  consent,  as  though  drawn  by 
centripetal  force,  actors  and  spectators  crowded  together 
until  they  were  a  solid  block  of  humanity.  Caught  in 
the  midst,  Grannis  and  Ben  alike  could  for  a  moment 
but  move  with  the  mass.  So  fierce  was  the  crush  that 
their  very  breath  seemed  imprisoned  in  their  lungs. 

Like  molten  metal  the  crowd  began  to  flow  —  to  the 
right,  in  the  direction  of  the  railroad  track.  With  each 
passing  moment  the  confusion  was,  if  possible,  greater 
than  before.  Here  and  there  a  cowboy,  unable  to  control 
his  excess  of  feeling,  emptied  his  revolver  into  the  air. 
Once  Ben  heard  the  wailing  yelp  of  a  dog  caught  under 

[  179  ] 


Ben  Blair 

foot  of  the  mass.  To  his  left,  a  little  man  with  a  white 
collar,  obviously  a  mere  spectator,  pleaded  loudly  to  be 
released  from  the  pressure.  Adding  to  the  confusion,  the 
bell  on  the  town-hall  began  ringing  furiously. 

On  they  went,  a  hundred  yards,  two  hundred,  reached 
the  railroad  track,  stopped.  In  the  midst  of  the  leaders, 
looming  over  their  heads,  was  a  whitened  telegraph  pole. 
Of  a  sudden  a  lariat  shot  up  over  the  painted  cross-arm, 
and  dropped,  the  two  ends  dangling  free;  and,  under 
standing  it  all,  the  spectators  again  became  silent.  Every 
thing  moved  like  clockwork.  From  somewhere  in  the 
darkness  a  bare-backed  pony  was  produced  and  brought 
directly  under  the  dangling  rope.  Astride  him  a  dark- 
bearded  figure  with  hands  tied  behind  his  back  was  placed 
and  firmly  held.  Swiftly  a  running  noose,  fashioned  from 
the  ends  of  the  lariat,  was  slipped  over  the  captive^s  neck. 
A  man  grasped  the  bit  of  the  mustang.  Before  him,  the 
crowd  began  to  give  way.  The  great  bull-necked  leader 
—  Mick  Kennedy,  every  one  now  saw  it  was  —  held  up  his 
hand  for  silence,  and  turned  to  the  helpless  figure  astride 
the  pony. 

"Tom  Blair !  "  he  said,  —  and  such  was  now  the  silence 
that  a  whisper  would  have  been  audible,  —  "  Tom  Blair, 
have  you  anything  you  wish  to  say?" 

The  dark  shape  took  no  notice.  Apparently  it  did 
not  hear. 

Mick  Kennedy  hesitated.  Upon  his  lips  a  repetition  of 
the  question  was  forming  —  but  it  got  no  farther.  In  the 
midst  of  the  mass  of  spectators  there  was  a  sudden  tumult, 
a  scattering  from  one  spot  as  from  a  lighted  bomb. 

[  180  ] 


in  the  Grip  of  the  Law 

"  Make  way  ! "  demanded  an  insistent  voice.  "  Let  me 
through ! "  And  for  a  moment,  forgetting  the  other  in 
terest,  the  spectators  turned  to  this  newer  one. 

At  first  they  could  distinguish  nothing  perfectly ;  then 
amidst  the  confusion  they  made  out  the  form  of  a 
long -armed,  long -faced  youth,  his  head  lowered,  his 
shoulder  before  him  like  a  wedge,  crowding  his  way  to 
the  fore.  • 

"  Make  room  there ! "  he  repeated.  "  Make  room  !  " 
and  again  into  the  crowd,  like  a  snow-plough  into  a  drift, 
he  penetrated  until  his  momentum  was  exhausted,  then 
paused  for  a  fresh  plunge. 

But  before  him  a  pathway  was  forming.  Seemingly 
the  thing  was  impossible,  but  the  trick  of  a  spoken  name 
was  sufficient. 

"  It 's  Ben  Blair  ! "  someone  had  announced,  and  others 
had  loudly  taken  up  the  cry.  "  It 's  Ben  Blair !  Let 
him  through ! " 

Along  the  pathway  thus  cleared  the  youth  made  his  way 
and  approached  the  centre  of  activity.  Previously  the 
drama  had  moved  swiftly,  —  so  swiftly  that  the  specta 
tors  could  merely  watch  developments,  but  under  the 
interruption  it  halted.  The  man  at  the  pony's  bridle 
—  cowboy  Buck  it  was  —  paused,  uncertain  what  to  do, 
doubtful  of  the  intent  of  the  long-faced  man  who  so 
suddenly  had  come  beside  him.  Not  so  Mick  Kennedy. 
Well  he  knew  what  was  in  store,  and  reaching  over  he 
gave  tlie  pony  a  resounding  slap  on  the  flank. 

"  Let  him  go,  Buck ! "  he  commanded  of  the  cowboy. 
«  Hurry!" 

f  i«i  1 


Ben  Blair 

But  already  he  was  too  late.  With  a  grip  like  a  trap, 
Ben's  hand  was  likewise  on  the  rein,  holding  the  little 
beast,  despite  his  struggles,  fairly  in  Jiis  tracks.  Ben's 
head  turned,  met  the  bartender's  Cyclopean  eye  squarely, 
and  held  it  with  a  look  this  bulldozer  of  men  had  never 
before  received  in  all  his  checkered  career. 

"  Mick  Kennedy,"  he  said  quietly,  "  another  move  like 
that,  and  in  five  minutes  you  '11  be  hanging  from  the  other 
side." 

For  the  fraction  of  a  second  there  was  a  pause ;  but, 
short  as  it  was,  the  Irishman  felt  the  sweat  start.  "  The 
day  of  such  as  you  has  passed,  Mick  Kennedy." 

There  was  no  time  for  more.  As  bystanders  gather 
around  a  street  fight,  the  grim  cowmen  had  closed  in  from 
all  sides.  On  the  outskirts  men  mounted  each  other's 
shoulders  the  better  to  see.  Of  a  sudden,  from  behind, 
Ben  felt  himself  grasped  by  a  multitude  of  hands.  Angry 
voices  sounded  in  his  ears. 

"  String  him  up  too  if  he  interferes ! "  suggested  one. 

«  That 's  the  talk  !  "  echoed  a  third.    "  Swing  him,  too  ! " 

The  lust  of  blood  was  upon  the  crowd,  crying  to  be 
satisfied.  But  they  had  reckoned  wrongly,  and  were  soon 
to  learn  their  error.  Every  atom  of  the  long  youth's  fight 
ing  blood  was  raised  to  boiling  pitch.  On  the  instant,  the 
all  but  superhuman  strength  at  which  we  marvel  in  the 
insane  was  his.  Like  flails,  his  doubled  fists  shot  out  in 
every  direction,  meeting  resistance  at  each  blow.  By  the 
dim  light  he  caught  the  answering  glint  on  sheath  knives, 
but  he  took  no  notice.  His  hat  had  come  off,  and  his 
abundant  brown  hair  shook  about  his  shoulders.  His  blue 

[  182} 


In  the  Grip  of  the  Law 

eyes  blazed.  A  figure  of  war  incarnate  he  stood,  and  a 
vacant  circle  which  no  one  cared  to  cross  formed  about 
him.  One  long  hand,  with  fingers  outstretched,  was  raised 
above  his  head.  The  brilliant  eyes  searched  the  surround 
ing  sea  of  faces  for  those  he  knew  ;  as  one  by  one  he  found 
them,  lingered,  conquered.  Silence  fell  intense. 

"  Men  !  Gentlemen  !  "  The  words  went  out  like  pistol- 
shots,  reaching  every  acute  ear.  "  Listen  to  me.  I  Ve 
a  right  to  speak.  Stop  a  moment,  all  of  you,  and  think. 
This  is  the  twentieth  century,  not  the  first.  We  Ve  in 
America,  free  America.  Think,  I  say,  think !  Don't  act 
blindly  !  Think  !  This  man  is  guilty.  We  all  know  it. 
He  's  caught  red-handed.  But  he  can't  escape.  Remem 
ber  this,  men,  and  think !  As  you  value  your  own  self- 
respect,  as  you  honor  the  country  you  live  in,  don't  be 
savages,  don't  do  this  deed  you  contemplate,  this  thing 
you  Ve  started  doing.  Let  the  law  take  its  course  !  " 

The  speaker  paused  for  breath,  and,  as  though  fascinated 
by  his  audacity  or  something  else,  friend  and  enemy  re 
mained  motionless  and  waiting.  Well  fitting  the  drama 
was  its  setting  :  the  darkness  of  night  broken  by  the  flick 
ering  lanterns ;  on  the  pony  the  huddled  helpless  figure 
with  a  running  noose  about  its  neck  ;  the  row  upon  row 
of  rugged  faces,  of  gleaming  eyes ! 

"  Ranchers,  stockmen ! "  rushed  on  the  insistent  voice, 
"  you  know  responsibility ;  it 's  to  you  I  'm  talking.  A 
principle  is  at  stake  here,  —  the  principle  of  law  or  of 
lawlessness.  One  of  these  —  you  know  which  —  has  run 
this  range  too  long ;  it 's  gripping  us  at  this  moment. 
Before  we  can  be  free  we  must  call  it  halt.  Let 's  do  it 

[183] 


Ben  Blair 

now ;  don't  wait  for  the  next  time  or  the  next,  but  now, 
now ! "  Once  more  he  paused,  his  eyes  for  the  last  time 
making  the  circle  swiftly,  his  hand  in  the  air,  palm  for 
ward.  "  For  law,  the  law  of  J.  L.  Ran  kin,  instead  of 
Judge  Lynch  !  "  he  challenged.  "  For  civilization  instead 
of  savagery  —  not  to-morrow  but  now,  now  !  Help  me 
to  uphold  the  law ! " 

So  swiftly  that  the  spectators  scarcely  realized  what  he 
was  doing,  he  stepped  over  to  the  limp  figure  upon  the 
pony,  loosed  the  noose  from  around  the  neck,  and  lifted 
him  to  the  ground. 

"  Sheriff  Ralston !  "  he  called  ;  "  come  and  take  your 
prisoner  !  Russell !  Stetson  !  Grannis  ! "  designating  each 
by  name,  "  every  man  who  values  life,  help  me  now ! " 

The  cry  was  the  trumpet  for  action.  Instantly  every 
one  was  in  motion.  Again  arose  the  Babel  of  voices,  —  - 
voices  cursing,  arguing,  encouraging.  The  circle  of  malev 
olent  faces  which  had  surrounded  the  youth  would  not 
longer  be  stayed,  closed  hotly  in.  He  felt  the  press  of 
their  bodies  against  his,  their  breath  in  his  face.  With 
an  effort,  marking  his  place,  the  extended  right  hand  went 
up  once  more  into  the  air.  The  slogan  again  sprang  to 
his  tongue. 

"  For  the  law  of  J.  L.  Rankin,  men  !     The  law  of — " 

The  sentence  died  on  his  lips.  Suddenly,  something 
lightning-like,  scorching  hot,  caught  him  beneath  his  right 
shoulder-blade.  Before  his  eyes  the  faces,  the  lighted  lan 
terns,  faded  into  darkness.  A  sound  like  falling  waters 
roared  in  his  ears. 

[184] 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  QUICK  AND  THE  DEAD 

WHEN  Ben  Blair  again  woke  to  consciousness 
the  sunlight  was  pouring  upon  him  steadily. 
He  was  in  a  strange  bed  in  a  strange  room ; 
and  he  looked  about  him  perplexedly.     Amid  the  unfa- 
miliarity  his  eye  caught  an  object  he  recognized,  —  the 
broad  angular  back  of  a  man.     Memory  slowly  adjusted 
itself. 

"Grannis  — r 

The  back  reversed,  showing  a  rather  surprised  face. 

"  Where  am  I,  Grannis  ?  " 

The  foreman  came  over  to  the  bed.  "  In  the  hotel.  In 
the  bridal  chamber,  they  informed  me,  to  be  exact." 

Ben  did  not  smile.  Memory  was  clear  now.  "  What 
happened  after  they  —  got  me  last  night  ?  " 

Grannis's  face  showed  distinct  animation.  "  A  lot  of 
things  —  and  mighty  fast.  You  missed  the  best  part." 
Of  a  sudden  he  paused  and  looked  at  his  charge  doubt 
fully.  "But  I  forgot.  You're  not  to  talk  :  the  doctor 
said  so." 

Ben  made  a  grimace.     "  But  I  can  listen,  can't  I  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  so,"  still  doubtfully. 

"Well  —  " 

[  185  ] 


Ben  Blair 

Grannis  hearkened  equivocally.  No  one  was  about, 
likely  to  overhear  him  disobeying  instructions,  and  the 
temptation  was  strong. 

"  You  know  McFadden  ?  "  he  queried  suddenly. 

Blair  nodded. 

"  Well,  say,  that  Scotchman  is  a  tiger.  He  got  to  the 
front  somehow  when  you  called  for  reinforcements,  and 
when  you  went  down  he  was  Johnny-on-the-spot  taking 
your  place.  Some  of  the  rest  of  us  got  in  there  pretty 
soon,  and  for  a  bit  things  was  lively.  It  was  rather  close 
range  for  gun-work,  but  knives  were  as  thick  as  frogs  after 
a  shower."  With  a  sudden  movement  Grannis  slipped 
up  the  sleeve  of  his  left  arm,  showing  a  bandage  through 
which  the  blood  had  soaked  and  dried.  "All  of  us  got 
scratched  some.  One  fellow  of  the  opposition  —  Mick 
Kennedy  —  met  with  an  accident." 

"  Serious  ?  " 

"Rather.  We  planted  him  after  things  had  quieted 
down." 

For  a  moment  the  two  men  looked  at  each  other 
steadily,  and  the  subject  was  dropped. 

"  Well,"  suggested  Blair  once  more. 

"That's  all,  I  guess  —  except  that  Ralston  has  the 
prisoner."  A  grim  reminiscent  smile  came  to  the  speaker's 
lips.  "  Tnat  is,  he 's  got  him  if  the  floors  of  the  cells  here 
are  paved  good  and  thick.  Last  time  I  saw  T.  Blair  he 
was  fairly  shaking  post-holes  into  the  ground  with  his 
feet." 

Ben  tried  to  shift  in  bed,  but  with  the  movement  a 
sudden  pain  made  him  grit  his  teeth  to  keep  from 

[  186  ] 


The  Quick  and  the  Dead 

uttering  a  groan.  For  the  first  time  he  thought  of 
himself. 

"How  much  am  I  hurt,  Grannis  ?"  he  queried  directly. 

The  foreman  busied  himself  doing  nothing  about  the 
room.  "  You  ?  "  cheerfully.  "  Oh,  you  're  all  right." 

Ben  looked  at  the  other  narrowly.  "  Nothing  to  bother 
about,  I  judge  ?  " 

"  No,  certainly  not." 

Beneath  the  bedclothes  the  long  body  lifted,  but  de 
spite  anything  it  could  do  the  face  went  pale. 

"Very  well,  I  guess  I'll  get  up  then." 

Instantly  Grannis  was  beside  him,  motioning  him  back, 
genuine  concern  upon  his  face. 

«  No,  please  don't.     Not  yet." 

"  But  if  I  'm  not  hurt  much  —  " 

Grannis  fingered  his  forelock  in  obvious  discomfort. 

"Well,  between  you  and  me,  it's  this  way.  They 
ripped  a  seam  for  you  —  so  far,"  he  indicated,  "  and  it 's 
open  yet." 

Turning  his  free  left  arm,  Ben  touched  the  bandage  at 
his  side,  and  the  hand  came  back  moist  and  red.  Now 
that  it  occurred  to  him,  he  was  ridiculously  weak. 

"  I  see.  I  'm  liable  to  rip  it  more,"  he  commented 
slowly. 

The  other  nodded.  "Yes;  don't  talk.  I  ought  to 
have  stopped  you  before  this." 

"  Grannis  ! "  There  was  no  escaping  the  blue  eyes  this 
time.  "  Honestly,  now,  am  I  liable  to  be  —  done  for,  or 
not?" 

The  foreman  became  instantly  serious.  "  Honest,  if 
[  187] 


Ben  Blair 

you  keep  quiet  you're  all  right.  Doc  said  so  not  an 
hour  ago.  At  first  he  thought  different,  that  you'd 
never  wake  up ;  you  bled  like  a  pig  with  its  throat  cut ; 
but  this  is  what  he  told  me  when  he  left.  *  Keep  him 
quiet.  It  may  take  a  month  for  that  gap  to  heal,  but  if 
you  Ye  careful  he'll  pull  through.'"  Again  the  look  of 
concern,  and  this  time  of  contrition  as  well.  "  I  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  myself  for  letting  you  talk  at  all ;  but 
this  is  straight.  Now  don't  say  any  more." 

This  time  Ben  obeyed.  He  could  n't  well  do  otherwise. 
He  had  suddenly  grown  weak  and  drowsy,  and  almost 
before  Grannis  was  through  speaking  he  was  again  asleep. 

The  doctor  was  right  about  the  time  of  healing.  Dur 
ing  the  remainder  of  that  month  and  well  into  the  next, 
despite  his  restless  protests,  Ben  Blair  was  a  prisoner  in 
that  dull  little  room ;  and  through  it  all  Grannis  remained 
with  him. 

"  You  don't  have  to  stay  with  me  unless  you  like,"  Ben 
had  said  more  than  once;  but  each  time  Grannis  had 
displayed  his  own  wound,  at  first  openly,  at  last,  carefully 
concealed  by  bandages,  whimsically. 

"  Got  to  take  good  care  of  this  arm  of  mine,"  he 
explained.  "  Blood  poisoning 's  liable  to  set  in  at  any 
minute,  and  that's  something  awful,  they  tell  me." 

The  invalid  made  no  comment. 

It  was  the  evening  following  the  afternoon  of  Blair's 
return  to  the  [R^  ranch.  In  the  cosey  kitchen,  around  the 
new  range  which  Rankin  had  imported  the  previous  Fall, 
sat  three  people,  —  Grannis,  Graham,  and  Ma  Graham. 


The  Quick  and  the  Dead 

The  two  men  were  smoking  steadily  and  silently.  The 
woman,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  glued  to 
the  floor,  was  breathing  loudly  with  the  difficulty  of 
the  very  corpulent.  Of  a  sudden,  interrupting,  the  door 
connecting  with  the  room  adjoining  opened  and  Ben  Blair 
appeared. 

"  Grannis,"  he  requested,  "  come  here  a  moment,  please." 

In  silence  Blair  closed  the  door  behind  them,  motioned 
his  companion  to  a  seat,  and  took  another  opposite  him. 
He  was  very  quiet,  even  for  his  taciturn  self ;  and,  glanc 
ing  at  a  heap  of  papers  on  a  near-by  table,  Grannis  under 
stood.  For  a  long  minute  the  two  men  eyed  each  other 
silently.  Not  without  result  had  they  lived  the  events  of 
the  last  months  together.  It  was  the  younger  man  who 
first  spoke. 

"  Grannis,"  he  said  impassively,  "  I  'm  going  to  ask 
you  a  question,  and  I  want  an  honest  answer.  Whatever 
you  may  think  it  leads  to  must  cut  no  figure.  Will  you 
give  it?" 

Equally  impassively  the  elder  man  nodded,  "  Yes." 

Blair  selected  a  paper  from  the  litter,  and  looked  at  it 
steadily.  "  What  I  want  to  know  is  this :  have  I,  has 
anyone,  no  matter  what  the  incentive  may  be,  the  right  to 
make  known  after  another's  death  things  which  during 
that  person's  life  were  carefully  concealed  ?  " 

The  steady  gaze  shifted  to  his  companion,  held  there 
compellingly.  tt  In  other  words,  is  a  tragedy  any  less  a 
tragedy,  any  more  public  property,  because  the  actors  are 
dead  ?  Answer  me  honest,  Grannis." 

Impassively  as   before   the    overseer    shook    his   head. 

189 


Ben  Blair 

"  No,  I  think  not,"  he  said.  "  Let  the  dead  past  bury  its 
dead." 

A  moment  longer  the  other  remained  motionless,  then, 
before  his  companion  realized  what  he  was  doing,  Ben  had 
opened  the  door  of  the  sheet-iron  heater  and  tossed  the 
paper  in  his  fingers  fair  among  the  glowing  coals. 

"Thank  you,  Grannis,"  he  said,  UI  agree  with  you." 
He  stood  a  second  looking  into  the  suddenly  kindled 
blaze.  "  As  you  say,  to  the  living,  life.  Let  the  dead 
past  bury  its  dead." 

The  flame  died  down  until  upon  the  coals  lay  a  thin, 
curling  film  of  carbon.  Grannis  shifted  in  his  seat. 

"  Nevertheless,"  he  commented  indifferently,  "  you  Ve 
done  a  foolish  act."  A  pause ;  then  he  went  on  deliber 
ately  as  before.  "  You  've  destroyed  the  only  evidence 
that  proves  you  Rankings  son." 

Involuntarily  Blair  stiffened,  seeming  about  to  speak. 
But  he  did  not.  Instead,  he  closed  the  stove  and  resumed 
his  former  seat. 

",By  the  way,"  he  digressed,  "  I  just  received  a  letter 
from  Scotty  Baker.  I  wrote  him  some  time  ago  about  — 
Mr.  Rankin.  He  answered  from  England." 

Grannis  made  no  comment,  and,  the  conversation  being 
obviously  at  an  end,  after  a  bit  he  rose,  and  with  a  taciturn 
"  Good-night,"  left  the  room. 

Days  and  weeks  passed.  The  dead  rigor  of  Winter  gave 
way  to  traces  of  Spring.  On  the  high  places  the  earth 
began  to  turn  brown,  the  buffalo  grass  to  peep  into  view. 
By  day  the  water  slushed  under  the  feet  of  the  cattle,  and 

[  190] 


The  Quick  and  the  Dead 

ran  merrily  in  the  draws  of  the  rolling  country.  By  night 
it  froze  into  marvellous  frost-work  ;  daintier  and  more  in 
tricate  of  pattern  than  any  made  by  man.  Overhead,  flocks 
of  wild  ducks  in  irregular  geometric  patterns  sailed  north 
at  double  the  speed  of  express  trains.  With  their  mellow 
"  Honk  —  honk,"  sweetest  sound  of  all  to  a  frontiersman's 
ears,  harbingers  of  Spring  indeed,  far  above  the  level  of 
the  ducks,  amid  the  very  clouds  themselves,  the  geese,  in 
regular  triangles,  winged  their  way  toward  the  snow-lands. 
At  first  they  seemed  to  pass  only  by  day ;  then,  as  the 
season  advanced,  the  nights  were  melodious  with  the  sound 
of  their  voices.  Themselves  invisible,  far  below  on  the  sur 
face  of  earth  the  swish  of  their  migratory  wings  sounded 
so  distinctly  that  to  a  listening  human  ear  it  almost 
seemed  it  were  a  troop  of  angels  passing  overhead. 

After  them  came  the  myriad  small  birds  of  the  prairie, 
—  the  countless  flocks  of  blackbirds,  whose  "  fl-ee-ce," 
in  continuous  chorus  filled  all  the  daylight  hours  ;  the 
meadow-larks,  singly  or  in  pairs,  announcing  their  arrival 
with  a  guttural "  tuerk  "  and  a  saucy  flit  of  the  tail,  or 
admonishing  "  fill  your  tea-kettle,  fill  your  tea-kettle  "  with 
a  persistence  worthy  a  better  cause. 

Ere  this  the  earth  was  bare  and  brown.  The  chatter 
of  the  snow  streams  had  ceased.  In  the  high  places,  on 
southern  slopes,  there  was  even  a  suggestion  of  green.  At 
last,  on  the  sunny  side  of  a  knoll,  there  peeped  forth  the 
blue  face  of  an  anemone.  The  following  day  it  had  sev 
eral  companions.  Within  a  week  a  very  army  of  blue  had 
arrived,  stood  erect  at  attention  so  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach  and  beyond.  No  longer  was  there  a  doubt  of  the 


Ben  Blair 

season.     Not  precursors  of  Spring,  but  Spring  itself  had 
come. 

Meanwhile,  on  the  [R_  ranch  everything  moved  on  as  of 
yore.  Save  on  that  first  night,  Ben  Blair  made  no  man 
his  confidant,  accepted  without  question  his  place  as 
Ran  kin's  successor.  Most  silent  of  these  silent  people,  he 
did  his  work  and  did  it  well,  burying  deep  beneath  an  im 
penetrable  mask  his  thoughts  and  feelings.  Not  until  an 
early  Summer  was  almost  come  did  he  make  a  move. 
Then  at  last  a  note  of  three  sentences  went  eastward : 

"  Miss  BAKER  :  I  '11  be  in  New  York  in  a  few  days,  and  if 
convenient  to  you  will  call.  The  prairies  send  greetings  in 
advance.  I  saw  the  first  wild  rose  of  the  season  to-day. 

"BEN  BLAIR." 

A  week  later,  after  giving  directions  for  the  day's  work 
to  Grannis  one  morning,  Ben  added  some  suggestions  for 
the  days  to  follow.  As  to  time,  they  were  rather  indefi 
nite,  and  the  overseer  looked  a  question. 

"I'm  going  away  for  a  bit,"  explained  Ben,  simply,  in 
answer.  Then  he  turned  to  Graham.  "Hitch  up  the 
buckboard  right  away,  please.  I  want  you  to  take  me  to 
town  in  time  to  catch  the  afternoon  train  East." 


[  192] 


CHAPTER   XVII 

GLITTER  AND  TINSEL 

CLARENCE  SIDWELL  —  Chad,  his  friends  called 
him — leaned  farther  back  in  the  big  wicker  chair, 
with  an  involuntary  motion  adjusted  his   well- 
creased  trousers  so  there  might  be  no  tension  at  the  knees, 
and  looked  across  the  tiny  separating  table  at  his  vis-a-vis^ 
while  his  eyelids  whimsically  tightened. 

"  Well/'  he  queried,  "  what  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

The  little  brunette,  his  companion,  roused  herself  almost 
with  a  start,  while  a  suggestion  of  conscious  red  tinged  her 
face.  "  I  beg  your  pardon  ?  "  she  said,  inquiringly. 

The  man  smiled.  "  Forgotten  already,  was  n't  I  ?  "  he 
bantered. 

"  No,  certainly  not.     I  —  " 

A  hand,  delicate  and  carefully  manicured  as  a  woman's, 
was  raised  in  protest.  "  Don't  prevaricate,  please.  The 
occasion  is  n't  worth  it."  The  hand  returned  to  the  chair- 
arm  with  a  play  of  light  upon  the  solitaire  it  bore.  The 
smile  broadened.  "You  were  caught.  Confess,  and  the 
sentence  will  be  lighter." 

As  a  wave  recedes,  the  red  flood  began  to  ebb  from  the 
girl's  face.  "  I  confess,  then.  I  was  —  thinking." 

"  And  I  was  —  forgotten.     My  statement  was  correct." 
13  [  193  ] 


Ben  Blair 

She  looked  up,  and  the  two  smiled  companionably. 

"  Admitted.     I  await  the  penalty.11 

The  man's  expression  changed  into  mock  sternness. 
"  Very  well,  Miss  Baker ;  having  heard  your  confession 
and  remembering  a  promise  to  exercise  clemency,  this 
court  is  about  to  impose  sentence.  Are  you  prepared  to 
listen  ? " 

"  I  'm  growing  stronger  every  minute."" 

The  court  frowned,  the  heavy  black  eyebrows  making 
the  face  really  formidable. 

"  I  fear  the  defendant  does  n't  realize  the  enormity  of 
the  offence.  However,  we  11  pass  that  by.  The  sentence, 
Miss  Baker,  brings  me  back  to  the  starting-point.  You 
are  directed  to  answer  the  question  just  propounded,  the 
question  which  for  some  inexplicable  reason  you  did  n't 
hear.  What  do  you  think  of  it  —  this  roof-garden,  and 
things  in  general  ? "  The  stern  voice  paused ;  the  brows 
relaxed,  and  he  smiled  again.  "  But  first,  you  're  sure  you 
won't  have  something  more  —  an  ice,  a  wee  bottle  — 
anything?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"  Then  let 's  make  room  here  at  this  table  for  a  better 
man ;  to  hint  at  vacating  for  a  better  woman  would  be 
heresy !  It 's  pleasanter  over  there  in  the  corner  out  of 
the  light,  where  one  can  see  the  street." 

They  found  a  vacant  bench  behind  a  skilfully  arranged 
screen  of  palms,  and  Sidwell  produced  a  cigar. 

"  In  listening  to  a  tale  or  a  confession,"  he  explained, 
"  one  should  always  call  in  the  aid  of  nicotine.  I  fancy 
Munchausen's  listeners  must  have  been  smokers." 

[19*] 


Glitter  and  Tinsel 

The  girl  steadily  inspected  the  dark  mobile  face,  half 
concealed  in  the  shadow.  "  You  Ye  making  sport  of  me," 
she  announced  presently. 

Instantly  her  companion's  smile  vanished.  "  I  beg  your 
pardon,  Miss  Baker,  but  you  misunderstood.  I  thought 
by  this  time  you  knew  me  better  than  that." 

"You  really  are  interested,  then?  Would  you  truly 
like  to  know  —  what  you  asked  ?  " 

"  I  truly  would." 

Florence  hesitated.  Her  breath  came  a  trifle  more 
quickly.  She  had  not  yet  learned  the  trick  of  repression 
of  the  city  folk. 

"I  think  it's  wonderful,"  she  said.  "Everything  is 
wonderful.  I  feel  like  a  child  in  fairyland;  only  the 
fairies  must  be  giants.  This  great  building,  for  instance, 
—  I  can't  make  it  seem  a  product  of  mere  six-foot  man  ! 
In  spite  of  myself,  I  keep  expecting  a  great  genie  to 
emerge  somewhere.  I  suppose  this  seems  silly  to  you, 
but  it 's  the  feeling  I  have,  and  it  makes  me  realize  my 
own  insignificance." 

Sid  well  smoked  in  silence. 

"That's  the  first  impression -r—  the  most  vivid  one,  I 
think.  The  next  is  about  the  people  themselves.  I  've 
been  here  nearly  a  half-year  now,  but  even  yet  I  stare  at 
them  —  as  you  caught  me  staring  to-night  —  almost  with 
open  mouth.  To  see  these  men  in  the  daylight  hours 
down  town  one  would  think  they  cared  more  for  a  minute 
than  for  their  eternal  happiness.  I'm  almost  afraid  to 
speak  to  them,  my  little  affairs  seem  so  tiny  in  comparison 
with  the  big  ones  it  must  take  to  make  men  work  as  they 

[195] 


Ben  Blair 

do.  And  then,  a  little  later,  —  apparently  for  no  other 
reason  than  that  the  sun  has  ceased  to  shine,  —  I  see  them, 
as  here,  for  instance,  unconscious  that  not  minutes  but 
hours  are  going  by.  They  all  seem  to  have  double  lives. 
I  get  to  thinking  of  them  as  Jekylls  and  Hydes.  It  makes 
me  a  bit  afraid." 

Still  Sid  well  smoked  in  silence,  and  Florence  observed 
him  doubtfully.  "  You  really  wish  me  to  chatter  on  in 
this  way  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  was  never  more  interested  in  my  life." 

The  girl  felt  her  face  grow  warm.  She  was  glad  they 
were  in  the  shadow,  so  the  man  could  not  see  it  too  clearly. 
For  a  moment  she  looked  about  her,  at  the  host  of  skilful 
waiters,  at  the  crowd  of  brightly  dressed  pleasure-seekers, 
at  the  kaleidoscopic  changes,  at  the  lights  and  shadows. 
From  somewhere  invisible  the  string  orchestra,  which  for 
a  time  had  been  silent,  started  up  anew,  while  her  answer 
ing  pulses  beat  to  swifter  measure.  The  air  was  a  familiar 
one,  heard  everywhere  about  town ;  and  she  was  conscious 
of  a  childish  desire  to  join  in  singing  it.  The  novelty  of 
the  scene,  the  sparkle,  the  animation,  the  motion  intoxi 
cated  her.  She  leaned  back  in  her  seat  luxuriously. 

"  This  is  life,"  she  murmured.  "  I  never  grasped  the 
meaning  of  the  word  until  within  the  last  few  months,  but 
now  I  begin  to  understand.  To  work  mightily  when  one 
works,  to  abandon  one's  self  completely  when  one  rests  — 
that  is  the  secret  of  life." 

The  man  in  the  shadow  shifted  his  position,  and,  look 
ing  up,  Florence  found  his  eyes  upon  her.  "  Do  you  really 
believe  that  ?  "  he  asked. 

[196] 


Glitter  and  Tinsel 

"  I  do,  most  certainly." 

Sidwell  lit  a  fresh  cigar,  and  for  a  moment  the  light  of 
the  burning  match  showed  his  face  clearly.  He  seemed 
about  to  say  more ;  but  he  did  not,  and  Florence  too  was 
silent.  In  the  pause  that  followed,  the  great  express  ele 
vator  stopped  softly  at  the  roof  floor.  The  gate  opened 
with  a  musical  click,  and  a  woman  and  a  man  stepped  out. 
Both  were  immaculately  dressed,  both  had  the  unmistaka 
ble  air  of  belonging  to  the  leisure  class.  They  spied  the 
place  Florence  and  Sidwell  had  left  vacant,  and  leisurely 
made  their  way  to  it.  A  waiter  appeared,  a  coin  changed 
hands,  an  order  was  given.  The  man  drew  out  a  cigar 
ette  case  that  flashed  in  colors  from  the  nearby  arc-light. 
Smilingly  the  woman  held  a  match,  and  a  moment  later 
wreath  after  wreath  of  curling  blue  smoke  floated  above 
them  into  the  night. 

Florence  Baker  watched  the  scene  with  a  strange  fasci 
nation.  She  was  conscious  of  having  at  some  time  visited 
a  play  wherein  a  similar  action  had  taken  place.  She  had 
thought  it  merely  a  creation  of  the  writer's  imagination  at 
the  time,  but  in  her  present  broadened  experience  she 
knew  better.  It  was  real,  —  real  as  the  air  she  breathed. 
She  simply  had  not  known  the  meaning  of  life  then ;  she 
was  merely  existing.  Now  she  knew  ! 

The  waiter  returned,  bearing  something  in  a  cooler. 
There  were  a  few  swift  motions,  a  pop  distinctly  heard 
above  the  drone  of  the  orchestra.  The  man  tossed  aside 
his  cigarette  and  leaned  forward.  Two  glasses  with  slen 
der  stems,  each  containing  a  liquid  that  effervesced  and 
sparkled,  one  in  the  man's  hand,  one  in  the  woman's,  met 

[197] 


Ben  Blair 

midway  of  the  board.     The  empty  glasses  returned  to  the 
table. 

Many  other  seekers  of  pleasure  were  about,  but  Florence 
had  no  eyes  for  them.  This  pair  alone,  so  indifferent  to 
their  surroundings,  so  thoroughly  a  part  of  them,  perfectly 
fulfilled  her  newly  formed  conception.  They  had  solved 
this  puzzle  of  existence,  solved  it  so  completely  that  she 
wondered  it  could  ever  have  appealed  to  her  as  a  puzzle  at 
all.  Again  the  formula,  distinct  as  the  handwriting  upon 
the  wall,  stood  revealed  before  her.  One  had  but  to  live 
life,  not  reason  it,  and  all  would  be  well. 

Again  and  again,  the  delicate  glasses  sparkled  to  wait 
ing  lips,  and  returned  empty  to  the  table.  The  man  lit 
another  cigarette,  and  its  smoke  mingled  with  the  dark 
ness  above.  In  the  hands  of  the  waiter  the  cooler  disap 
peared,  and  was  returned ;  a  second  cork  popped  as  had 
the  first.  The  woman's  eyes  sparkled  as  brilliantly  as  the 
gems  upon  her  fingers.  The  languor  of  the  man  had 
passed.  With  the  old  action  repeated,  the  brimming 
glasses  touched  across  the  board,  were  exchanged  after  the 
foreign  fashion,  and  again  were  dry.  The  figure  of  the 
man  leaned  far  over  the  table.  He  spoke  earnestly,  rap 
idly.  Unconscious  motions  of  his  hands  added  emphasis 
to  his  words.  Neither  he  nor  she  who  listened  was  smil 
ing  now.  Instead,  there  was  a  look,  identical  upon  either 
face,  a  look  somehow  strangely  familiar  to  the  watcher, 
one  she  had  met  with  before,  somewhere  —  somewhere. 
Memory  flew  back  on  lightning  wings,  searched  all  the 
paths  of  her  experience,  the  dim  all-but-forgotten  cran 
nies,  stopped  with  pointing  finger ;  and  with  a  tug  at 

[  198] 


Glitter  and  Tinsel 

her  very  being,  she  looked,  and  unbelieving  looked 
again.  Ah,  could  it  be  possible  —  could  it  ?  Yes,  there 
it  was,  unmistakable  ;  the  same  expression  as  this  before 
her  —  there,  blazing  from  the  eyes  of  a  group  of  strange 
street-loafers,  as  she  herself,  she,  Florence  Baker,  passed 
by! 

In  the  shadow  the  face  of  the  spectator  crimsoned,  the 
hot  flood  burned  at  her  ears,  a  tightness  like  a  physical 
hand  gripped  at  her  throat ;  but  it  seemed  that  her  eyes 
could  not  leave  the  figures  before  her.  Not  the  alien  in 
terest  of  a  watcher  at  the  play,  but  a  more  intense,  a  more 
personal  meaning,  was  in  her  gaze  now.  Something  of 
vital  moment  to  her  own  life  was  taking  place  out  there  so 
near,  and  she  must  see.  A  fleeting  wonder  as  to  whether 
her  own  companion  was  likewise  watching  came  to  her,  but 
she  did  not  turn  to  discover.  The  denouement,  inevitable 
as  death,  was  approaching,  might  come  if  she  for  an  in 
stant  looked  away. 

The  man  out  there  under  the  electric  globe  was  still 
talking  ;  the  woman,  his  companion,  still  listened.  Flor 
ence  caught  herself  straining  her  ears  to  hear  what  he  was 
saying ;  but  to  no  purpose.  She  heard  only  the  repressed 
murmur  of  his  well- modulated,  resonant  voice  ;  yet  that 
in  itself  was  enough.  The  old  song  of  the  sirens  was  flow 
ing  from  his  lips,  and  passion  flamed  in  his  eyes.  Farther 
and  farther  across  the  tiny  intervening  table,  nearer  the 
woman's  face,  his  own  approached.  The  last  empty  bot 
tle,  the  thin-stemmed  glasses,  stood  in  his  way,  and  he 
moved  them  aside  with  his  elbow.  So  near  now  was  he 
that  their  breaths  mingled,  and  as  the  drone  of  his  voice 

[  199] 


Ben  Blair 

ceased,  the  music  of  the  orchestra,  a  waltz,  flowed  into  the 
rift  with  its  steady  one-two-three.  He  was  motionless  ; 
but  his  eyes,  intense  blue  eyes  under  long  lashes,  were 
fixed  absorbingly  on  hers. 

It  was  the  woman's  turn  to  move.  Gradually,  grace 
fully,  unconsciously,  her  own  face  came  forward  toward 
his.  Sparkling  in  the  light,  a  jewelled  hand  rested  on  the 
surface  of  the  table.  A  tinge  of  crimson  mounted  the 
long  white  neck,  and  colored  it  to  the  roots  of  her  hair. 
The  arteries  at  the  throat  throbbed  under  the  thin  skin. 
Simultaneously,  the  opening  gate  of  the  elevator  clicked, 
and  a  man  —  another  with  that  unmistakable  air  of  lei 
sure  —  approached ;  but  still  she  did  not  notice,  did  not 
hear.  Instead,  with  a  sudden  motion,  heedless  of  sur 
roundings,  reckless  of  spectators,  her  face  crossed  the  gap 
intervening  between  her  and  her  companion ;  her  lips 
touched  his  lips,  caught  fire  with  the  contact,  met  them 
again  and  again. 

Watching,  scarcely  breathing,  Florence  saw  the  figure 
of  the  man  come  closer.  His  eyes  also  were  upon  the 
paiF.  He  caught  their  every  motion;  but  he  did  not 
hurry.  On  he  came,  leisurely,  impassively,  as  though  out 
for  a  stroll.  He  stopped  by  their  side,  a  darkening 
shadow  with  a  mask-like  face.  Instinctively  the  two 
glanced  up.  There  was  a  crash  of  glassware,  as  the  tiny 
table  lurched  in  the  woman's  hand  —  and  they  were  on 
their  feet.  A  moment  the  three  looked  into  each  others' 
eyes,  looked  deep  and  long ;  then  together,  without  a 
word,  they  turned  toward  the  elevator.  Again,  droning 
monotonously,  the  car  appeared  and  disappeared.  After 

[  200  ] 


Glitter  and  Tinsel 

them,  vibrant,  mocking,  there  beat  the  unvarying  rhythm 
of  the  waltz,  one-two-three,  one-two-three. 

In  the  shadow,  Florence  Baker's  face  dropped  into  her 
hands.  When  at  last  she  glanced  up  another  couple, 
likewise  immaculate  of  attire,  likewise  debonair  and  smil 
ing,  were  seated  at  the  little  table.  She  turned  to  her 
companion.  His  cigar  was  still  glowing  brightly.  He 
had  not  moved. 

"  I  think  1 11  go  home  now,  if  you  please,"  she  said,  and 
every  trace  of  animation  had  left  her  voice.  "  I  'm  rather 
tired." 

The  man  roused  himself.  "  It 's  early  yet.  There  '11  be 
vaudeville  here  in  a  little  while,  after  the  theatre." 

The  girl  observed  him  curiously.  "  It 's  early,  did  you 
say?" 

Sidwell  smiled  indulgently.  "  Beg  your  pardon.  I  had 
forgotten  our  standards  were  not  yet  in  conformity.  It 
is  so  considered  —  here." 

Florence  was  very  quiet  until  they  reached  the  steps 
of  her  own  home.  A  light  was  in  the  open  vestibule, 
another  in  the  library,  where  Scotty,  his  feet  comfortably 
enclosed  in  carpet-slippers  and  elevated  above  his  head, 
was  reading.  Then  she  turned  to  her  escort. 

"You  won't  be  offended,  Mr.  Sidwell,  if  I  ask  you  a 
question  ?  " 

The  electric  light  on  the  nearby  corner  shone  full 
upon  her  soft  brown  face,  a  very  serious  face  now,  and 
the  man's  glance  lingered  there.  "Certainly  not,"  he 
answered. 

Florence  hesitated.  Somehow,  now  that  the  moment 
[201  ] 


Ben  Blair 

for  speaking  had  arrived,  the  thing  she  had  in  mind  to 
say  did  not  seem  so  easy  after  all.  At  last  she  spoke, 
hesitatingly:  "You  seem  to  be  interested  in  me,  seem 
to  take  pleasure  in  being  in  my  company.  For  the  last 
few  months  we  have  been  together  almost  daily,  but  up 
to  that  time  we  had  lived  lives  as  unlike  as  —  as  the  city 
is  from  the  prairie.  I  know  you  have  many  other  friends, 
friends  you  Ve  known  all  your  life,  whose  ideals  and  points 
of  view  came  from  the  same  experience  as  your  own.1"  She 
straightened  with  dignity.  "  Why  is  it  that  you  leave 
those  friends  to  come  here?  Why  do  you  find  pleasure 
in  taking  me  about  as  you  do?  Why  is  it?" 

Not  once  while  she  was  speaking  had  the  man's  eyes 
left  her  face;  not  once  had  he  stirred.  Even  after  she 
was  silent  he  remained  so;  and  despite  the  compelling 
influence  which  had  prompted  the  question,  Florence 
could  not  but  realize  what  she  had  done,  what  she  had 
all  but  suggested.  The  warm  color  flooded  her  face, 
though  she  held  her  eyes  up  bravely.  "Tell  me  why," 
she  repeated  firmly. 

Sidwell  still  hesitated.  Complex  product  of  the  higher 
civilization,  mixture  of  good  and  bad,  who  knows  what 
thoughts  were  running  riot  in  his  brain  ?  At  last  he 
aroused  and  came  closer.  "  You  ask  me  a  very  hard 
question,"  he  said  steadily ;  "  the  most  difficult,  I  think, 
you  could  have  chosen ;  one,  also,  which  perhaps  I  have 
already  asked  myself."  Again  he  took  a  step  nearer. 
"  It  is  a  question,  Florence,  that  admits  of  but  one  answer ; 
one  both  adequate  and  inadequate.  It  is  because  you  are 
you  and  woman,  and  I  am  I  and  man."  Of  a  sudden  his 

f  202  ] 


Glitter  and  Tinsel 

dark  face  grew  swarthier  still,  his  voice  lapsed  from  its 
customary  impersonal.  "  It  means,  Florence  Baker  —  " 

But  the  sentence  was  not  completed.  As  suddenly  as 
the  change  had  come  to  the  man's  face,  the  girl  had 
understood.  With  an  impulse  she  could  not  have  ex 
plained  to  herself,  she  had  drawn  away  and  swiftly 
mounted  the  steps  of  the  house.  Not  until  she  reached 
the  porch  did  she  turn. 

"  Don't,  don't,  please ! "  she  urged.  "  I  beg  your  par 
don.  I  should  n't  have  asked  what  I  did.  Forget  that 
I  spoke  at  all."  She  was  struggling  for  words,  for  breath. 
Her  color  came  and  went.  "Good-night."  And  not 
trusting  herself  to  look  back,  oblivious  of  courtesy,  she 
almost  ran  into  the  house. 

Standing  as  she  had  left  him,  his  hat  in  his  hand, 
Clarence  Sidwell  watched  her  pass  through  the  lighted 
vestibule  into  the  darkness  beyond. 


[203] 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

PAINTER  AND  PICTURE 

SCOTTY  BAKER  dropped  a  lump  of  sugar  into 
his  coffee  and  stirred  the  mixture  carefully,  glanc 
ing  the  while  smilingly  at  his  wife  and  daughter. 

"  By  Jove ! "  he  exclaimed ;  "  it  seems  good  to  be  back 
here  again."" 

Mrs.  Baker  was  deep  in  a  letter  she  had  just  opened, 
but  Florence  returned  the  smile  companionably. 

"  And  it  seems  mighty  good  to  have  you  back,  daddy,"" 
she  replied.  "  Just  think  of  our  being  alone,  a  pair  of 
poor  defenceless  women,  three  whole  months  without  a 
man  about  the  house!  If  you  ever  dare  do  it  again 
you  're  liable  to  find  one  in  your  place  when  you  return. 
Isn't  he,  mamma?" 

Her  mother  looked  up  reproachfully.  "For  shame, 
Florence ! "  she  cried. 

But  Scotty  only  observed  his  daughter  quizzically.  "  I 
did  —  almost,  this  time,  did  n't  I  ?  "  he  bantered.  "  By 
the  way,  who  is  this  wonderful  being,  this  Sidwell,  I  've 
heard  so  much  about  the  last  few  hours?"  He  was  as 
obtuse  as  a  post  to  his  wife's  meaning  look.  "Tell  me 
about  him,  won't  you?" 

Florence  laughed  a  bit  unnaturally.  It  seemed  her 
words  had  a  way  of  returning  like  a  boomerang. 

[  204  ] 


Painter  and  Picture 

"He's  a  writer,11  she  explained  laconically. 

"A  writer?11  Scotty  paused,  a  teaspoonful  of  coffee 
between  the  cup  and  his  mouth.  "A  real  one?11 

The  smile  left  the  girl's  face.  "  His  family  is  one 
of  the  oldest  in  the  city,11  she  explained  coldly.  "His 
work  sells  by  the  thousand.  You  can  judge  for  your 
self.11 

Scotty  sipped  his  coffee  impassively,  but  behind  the  big 
glasses  the  twinkle  left  his  eyes. 

"The  inference  you  suggest  would  have  been  more 
obvious  if  you  had  n^t  made  the  first  remark,11  he  said 
a  little  sharply.  "  I  Ve  noticed  the  matter  of  good  family 
has  quite  an  influence  in  this  world.11 

The  subject  was  dropped,  but  nevertheless  it  left  its 
aftermath.  Easy-going  Scotty  did  not  often  say  an  un 
pleasant  thing,  and  for  that  very  reason  Florence  knew 
that  when  he  did  it  had  an  especial  significance. 

"  By  the  way,11  he  observed  after  a  moment,  "  we  ought 
to  celebrate  to-day  in  some  manner.  I  rather  expected  to 
find  a  band  at  the  station  to  welcome  me  yesterday  upon 
my  return,  but  I  did  n't,  and  I  fear  there  ''s  been  no  public 
demonstration  arranged.  What  do  you  say  to  our  packing 
up  our  dinner,  taking  the  elevated,  and  spending  the  day 
in  the  country  ?  What  say  you,  Mollie  ?  " 

His  wife  looked  at  her  daughter  helplessly.  "Just  as 
Florence  says.  I  'm  willing,11  she  replied. 

"What  speaks  the  oracle?11  smiled  Scotty.  "Shall  we 
or  shall  we  not?  Personally,  I  feel  a  desire  for  cooling 
jprings,  to  step  on  a  good-sized  plat  of  green  without 
having  a  watchful  bluecoat  loom  in  the  distance.1' 

[205] 


Ben  Blair 

Florence  fingered  the  linen  of  the  tablecloth  with  genu 
ine  discomfort.  "You  two  can  go.  I'll  help  you  get 
ready ,"  she  ventured  at  last.  "  I  'm  sorry,  but  I  promised 
Mr.  Sid  well  last  night  I  'd  visit  the  art  gallery  with  him 
this  afternoon.  He  says  they  've  some  new  canvases  hung 
lately,  one  of  them  by  a  particular  friend  of  his.  He 's 
such  a  student  of  art,  and  I  know  so  little  about  it  that  I 
hate  to  miss  going." 

Again  the  smile  left  Scotty's  eyes.  "  Can't  you  write  a 
note  explaining,  and  postpone  the  visit  until  some  other 
time  ? "  It  took  quite  an  effort  for  this  undemonstrative 
Englishman  to  make  the  request. 

The  girl  glanced  out  the  window  with  a  look  her  father 
understood  very  well.  "I  hardly  think  so,"  she  said. 
"  He 's  going  away  for  the  Summer  soon,  and  his  time  is 
limited." 

Scotty  said  no  more,  and  soon  after  he  left  the  table 
and  went  into  the  library.  Florence  sat  for  a  moment 
abstractedly;  then  with  her  old  impulsive  manner  she 
followed  him. 

"  Daddy,"  the  girl's  arms  clasped  around  his  neck,  her 
cheek  pressed  against  his,  "I'm  awful  sorry  I  can't  go 
with  you  to-day.  I  'd  like  to,  really." 

But  for  one  of  the  very  few  times  that  Florence  could 
remember  her  father  did  not  respond.  Instead,  he  re 
moved  her  arms  rather  coldly. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  he  said;  "I  hope  you'll  have  a 
good  time."  And  picking  up  the  morning  paper  he  lit 
a  cigar  and  moved  toward  the  shady  veranda. 

Watching  him,  the  girl  had  a  desire  to  follow,  to  pre- 
[206] 


Painter  and  Picture 

vent  his  leaving  her  in  that  way.     But  she  hesitated  and 
the  moment  passed. 

Yet,  although  a  cloud  shadowed  Florence  Baker's  morn 
ing,  by  afternoon  it  had  departed.  Sid  well's  carriage 
came  promptly,  creating  something  of  a  stir  behind  the 
drawn  shades  of  the  adjoining  residences  —  for  the  Bakers 
were  not  located  in  a  fashionable  quarter.  Sid  well  himself, 
immaculate,  smiling,  greeted  her  with  the  deference  which 
became  him  well,  and  in  itself  conveyed  a  delicate  com 
pliment.  Neither  made  any  reference  to  the  incident  of 
the  night  before.  His  manner  gave  no  hint  of  the  con 
straint  which  under  the  circumstances  might  have  been 
expected.  A  few  months  before,  the  girl  would  have 
thought  he  had  taken  her  request  literally,  and  had  for 
gotten  ;  but  now  she  knew  better.  In  this  fascinating 
new  life  one  could  pass  pleasantries  with  one's  dearest 
enemy  and  still  smile.  In  the  old  life,  under  similar  cir 
cumstances,  there  would  have  been  gun-play,  and  probably 
later  a  funeral ;  but  here  —  they  knew  better  how  to  live. 
Already,  in  the  few  social  events  she  had  attended,  she 
had  seen  them  juggle  with  emotions  as  a  conjurer  with 
knives  —  to  emerge  unhurt,  unruffled.  To  be  sure,  she 
could  not  herself  do  it  —  yet ;  but  she  understood,  and 
admired. 

Out  of  doors  the  sun  was  uncomfortably  hot,  but  within 
the  high  walled  gallery  it  was  cool  and  pleasant.  Florence 
had  been  there  before,  but  earlier  in  the  season,  and  many 
other  visitors  were  present.  To-day  she  and  Sidwell  were 
practically  alone,  and  she  faced  him  with  a  little  receptive 
gesture. 

[  207  ] 


Ben  Blair 

"  You  Ye  always  getting  me  to  talk,"  she  said.  "  To 
day  I  'm  going  to  exchange  places.  Don't  expect  me  to 
do  anything  but  listen." 

Sidwell  smiled.  "  Won't  you  even  condescend  to  sug 
gest  channels  in  which  my  discourse  may  flow  ? "  he 
bantered. 

The  girl  hesitated.  "Perhaps,"  she  ventured,  "if  I 
find  it  necessary." 

For  an  hour  they  wandered  about,  moving  slowly,  and 
pausing  often  to  rest.  Sidwell  talked  well,  but  somewhat 
impersonally.  At  last,  in  an  out-of-the-way  corner,  they 
came  to  the  modest  canvas  of  his  friend,  and  they  sat 
down  before  it.  The  picture  was  unnamed  and  unsigned. 
Without  being  extraordinary  as  a  work  of  art,  its  subject 
lent  its  chief  claim  to  distinction.  Interested  because  her 
companion  seemed  interested,  Florence  looked  at  it  stead 
ily.  At  first  there  appeared  to  her  nothing  but  a  moun 
tain,  steep  and  rugged,  and  a  weary  man  who,  climbing 
it,  had  lain  down  to  rest.  Far  down  at  the  mountain's 
base  she  saw  where  the  figure  had  begun  its  ascent.  The 
way  was  easy  there,  and  the  trail,  through  the  abundant 
grasses  crushed  underfoot,  was  of  one  who  had  moved  rap 
idly.  Gradually,  with  the  upward  incline,  obstacles  had 
increased,  and  the  footprints  drew  nearer  together.  Still 
higher,  from  a  straight  line  the  trail  had  become  tortuous 
and  irregular.  Here  the  climber  had  passed  around  a 
thicket  of  trees ;  there  a  great  boulder  had  stood  in  the 
path ;  but,  ever  indomitable,  the  way  had  been  steadily 
upward  toward  some  point  the  climber  had  in  view. 
Steeper  and  steeper  the  way  had  grown.  The  prints  on 

[  208  ] 


Painter  and  Picture 

the  rocky  mountain-side,  from  being  those  of  feet  only, 
merged  into  those  made  by  hands.  The  man  had  begun 
to  crawl,  making  his  way  inch  by  inch.  Fragments  of 
his  torn  clothing  hung  on  the  points  of  rocks.  Dim 
brown  lines  showed  the  path  his  body  had  taken,  as  he 
sometimes  slipped  back.  Breaks  in  the  scant  vegetation 
told  where  his  fingers  had  clutched  desperately  to  halt  his 
descent.  Yet  each  time  the  reverse  had  been  but  temporary; 
he  had  returned,  and  mounted  higher  and  higher.  But  at 
last  there  had  come  the  end.  He  had  reached  his  present 
place  in  the  picture.  By  gripping  tightly  he  could  hold 
his  own,  but  to  advance  was  impossible.  Straight  above 
him,  a  sheer  wall,  many  times  his  own  height,  was  the 
blank,  unbroken  face  of  the  rock.  That  he  had  tried  to 
scale  even  this  was  evident,  for  finger-marks  from  bleeding 
hands  were  thick  thereon ;  but  he  had  finally  abandoned 
the  effort.  Physically,  he  was  conquered.  It  seemed  that 
one  could  almost  hear  the  quick  coming  and  going  of  his 
breath.  Yet,  prostrate  as  he  lay,  his  eyes  were  turned 
toward  the  barrier  his  body  could  not  scale,  to  a  some 
thing  which  crowned  its  utmost  height, — something  indefi 
nite  and  unattainable,  —  the  supreme  desire  and  purpose 
of  his  life. 

The  two  spectators  sat  silent.  Other  visitors  came 
near,  glanced  at  the  canvas  and  at  the  pair  of  observers, 
and  passed  on  with  muffled  footsteps. 

The  girl  turned,  and,  as  on  the  night  at  the  roof- 
garden,  found  the  man's  eyes  upon  her. 

"  What  name  does  your  friend  give  to  his  work  ?  "  she 
asked. 

14  [  209  ] 


Ben  Blair 

«  He  calls  it  'The  Unattainable.1" 

"  And  what  is  its  meaning  ?  " 

"  Ambition,  perfection,  complete  happiness  —  anything 
striven  for  with  one's  whole  soul." 

Florence  was  studying  her  companion  now  as  steadily  as 
he  had  been  studying  her  a  moment  before.  "  To  your  — 
friend  it  meant  —  " 

"  Happiness/' 

The  girl's  hands  were  elapsed  in  her  lap  in  a  way  she 
had  when  her  thoughts  were  concentrated.  "And  he 
never  found  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

Unconsciously  one  of  Sidwell's  hands  made  a  downward 
motion  of  deprecation.  "  He  did  not.  We  made  the  cir 
cuit  of  the  earth  together  in  pursuit  of  it  —  but  all  was 
useless.  It  seemed  as  though  the  more  he  searched  the 
more  he  was  baffled  in  his  quest." 

For  a  moment  the  girl  made  no  reply,  but  in  her  lap  her 
hands  clasped  tighter  and  tighter.  A  thought  that  made 
her  finger-tips  tingle  was  taking  form  in  her  mind.  A 
dim  comprehension  of  the  nature  of  this  man  had  first 
suggested  it ;  the  fact  that  the  canvas  was  unsigned  had 
helped  give  it  form.  The  speaker's  last  words,  his  even 
tone  of  voice,  had  not  passed  unnoticed.  She  turned  to 
the  canvas,  searched  the  skilfully  concealed  outlines  of  the 
tattered  figure  with  the  upturned  eyes.  The  clasped  hands 
grew  white  with  the  tension. 

"  I  did  n't  know  before  you  were  an  artist  as  well  as  a 
writer,"  she  said  evenly. 

Sid  well  turned  quickly.  The  girl  could  feel  his  look.  "  I 
fear,"  he  said,  "  I  fail  to  grasp  your  meaning.  You  think  — " 


Painter  and  Picture 

Florence  met  the  speaker's  look  steadily.  "  I  don't 
think,"  she  said,  "  I  know.  You  painted  the  picture,  Mr. 
Sidwell.  That  man  there  on  the  mountain-side  is  you  ! " 

Her  companion  hesitated.  His  face  darkened  ;  his  lips 
opened  to  speak  and  closed  again. 

The  girl  continued  watching  him  with  steady  look.  "  I 
can  hardly  believe  it,"  she  said  absently.  "  It  seems 
impossible."" 

Sidwell  forced  a  smile.  «  Impossible  ?  What  ?  That  I 
should  paint  a  daub  like  that  ? " 

The  girl's  tense  hands  relaxed  wearily. 

"  No,  not  that  you  paint,  but  that  the  man  there  —  the 
one  finding  happiness  unattainable  —  should  be  you." 

The  lids  dropped  just  a  shade  over  Sid  well's  black  eyes. 
"  And  why,  if  you  please,  should  it  be  more  remarkable 
that  I  am  unhappy  than  another  ? " 

This  time  Florence  took  him  up  quickly.  "  Because," 
she  answered,  "  you  seem  to  have  everything  one  can  think 
of  that  is  needed  to  make  a  human  being  happv  —  wealth, 
position,  health,  ability  —  all  the  prizes  other  people  work 
their  lives  out  for  or  die  for."  Again  the  voice  dropped. 
"  I  can't  understand  it."  She  was  silent  a  moment.  "  I 
can't  understand  it,"  she  repeated. 

From  the  girl's  face  the  man's  eyes  passed  to  the  canvas, 
and  rested  there.  "  Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I  suppose  it  is 
difficult,  almost  impossible,  for  you  to  realize  why  I  am  — 
as  I  am.  You  have  never  had  the  personal  experience  — 
and  we  only  understand  what  we  have  felt.  The  trouble 
with  me  is  that  I  have  experienced  too  much,  felt  too  much. 
I  've  ceased  to  take  things  on  trust.  Like  the  youth  and 

[211] 


Ben  Blair 

the  key  flower  I  Ve  forgotten  the  best."  The  voice  paused, 
but  the  eyes  still  kept  to  the  canvas. 

"  That  picture,"  he  went  on,  "  typifies  it  all.  I  painted 
it,  not  because  I  'm  an  artist,  but  because  in  a  fashion  it 
expresses  something  I  could  n't  put  into  words,  or  express 
in  any  other  way.  When  I  began  to  climb,  the  object 
above  me  was  not  happiness  but  ambition.  Wealth  and 
social  place,  as  you  say,  I  already  had.  They  meant 
nothing  to  me.  What  I  wanted  was  to  make  a  name  in 
another  way  —  as  a  literary  man."  The  dark  eyes  shifted 
back  to  the  listeners  face,  the  voice  spoke  more  rapidly. 

"  I  went  after  the  thing  that  I  wanted  with  all  the 
power  and  tenacity  that  was  in  me.  I  worked  with  the 
one  object  in  view  ;  worked  without  resting,  feverishly.  I 
had  successes  and  failures,  failures  and  successes  —  a  long 
line  of  both.  At  last,  as  the  world  puts  it,  I  arrived.  I 
got  to  a  position  where  everything  I  wrote  sold,  and  sold 
well ;  but  in  the  meantime  the  thing  above  me,  which  had 
been  ambition,  gradually  took  on  another  shape.  Perfec 
tion  it  was  I  longed  for  now,  perfection  in  my  art.  It  was 
not  enough  that  the  public  had  accepted  me  as  I  was  ;  I 
was  not  satisfied  with  my  work.  Try  as  I  might,  nothing 
that  I  wrote  ever  reached  my  own  standard  in  its  execu 
tion.  I  worked  harder  than  ever ;  but  it  was  useless.  I 
was  confronting  the  blank  wall  —  the  wall  of  my  natural 
limitations." 

The  voice  paused,  and  for  a  moment  lowered.  "  I  won't 
say  what  I  did  then  ;  I  was  —  mad  almost  —  the  finger 
marks  of  it  are  on  the  rock." 

The  girl  could  not  look  longer  into  the  speaker's  eyes. 
[212] 


Painter  and  Picture 

She  felt  as  if  she  were  gazing  upon  a  naked  human  soul, 
and  turned  away. 

"  At  last,"  he  went  on  in  his  confession,  "  I  came  to 
myself,  and  was  forced  to  see  things  as  they  were.  I  saw 
that  as  well  as  I  thought  I  had  understood  life  I  had  not 
even  grasped  its  meaning.  I  had  fancied  the  attainment 
of  my  object  the  supreme  end,  and  by  every  human  stand 
ard  I  had  succeeded  in  my  purpose ;  but  the  thing  I  had 
gained  was  trash.  Wealth,  power,  notoriety  —  what  were 
they  ?  Bubbles,  nothing  more  ;  bubbles  that  broke  in  the 
hand  of  him  who  clasped  them.  The  real  meaning  and 
object  of  existence  lay  deeper,  and  had  nothing  whatever 
to  do  with  the  estimate  of  a  person  by  his  fellows.  It  was 
a  frame  of  mind  of  the  individual  himself." 

Florence's  face  turned  farther  away,  but  Sidwell  did  not 
notice.  "  Then,  for  the  last  time,"  he  hurried  on,  "  the  un 
attainable  changed  form  for  me,  and  became  what  it  seems 
now  —  happiness.  For  a  little  time  I  think  I  was  happy 
—  happy  in  merely  having  made  the  discovery.  Then 
came  the  reaction.  I  was  as  I  was,  as  I  am  now  —  a  prod 
uct  of  my  past  life,  of  a  civilization  essentially  artificial 
In  striving  for  a  false  ideal  I  had  unfitted  myself  for  the 
real  when  at  last  I  discovered  it." 

Unconsciously  the  man  had  come  closer,  and  his  eyes 
glowed.  At  last  his  apathy  was  shaken  off,  and  his  words 
came  in  a  torrent.  "What  I  was  then  I  am  to-day. 
Mentally,  I  am  like  an  inebriate,  who  no  longer  finds 
satisfaction  in  plain  food  and  drink,  but  craves  stimulants. 
I  demand  activity,  excitement,  change.  In  every  hour  of 
my  life  I  realize  the  narrowness  and  artificiality  of  it 

[  213  ] 


Ben  Blair 

all ;  but  without  it  I  am  unhappy.  I  sometimes  think 
Mother  Nature  herself  has  disowned  me ;  when  I  try  to 
get  near  her  she  draws  away  —  I  fancy  with  a  shudder. 
Solitude  of  desert,  of  forest,  or  of  prairie  is  no  longer 
solitude  to  me.  It  is  filled  with  voices  —  accusing  voices  ; 
and  I  rush  back  to  the  crowd  and  the  unrest  of  the  city. 
Even  my  former  pleasures  seem  to  have  deserted  me. 
You  have  spoke  often  of  accomplishing  big  things,  doing 
something  better  than  anyone  else  can  do  it,  as  an  ex 
ample  of  pleasure  supreme.  If  you  realized  what  you 
were  saying  you  would  know  its  irony.  You  cannot  do 
a  thing  better  than  anyone  else.  People,  like  water, 
strike  a  dead  level.  No  matter  how  you  strive,  dozens  of 
others  can  do  the  thing  you  are  doing.  Were  you  to  die, 
your  place  would  be  filled  to-morrow,  and  the  world 
would  wag  on  just  the  same.  There  is  always  someone 
just  beneath  you  watchfully  waiting,  ready  to  seize  your 
place  if  you  relax  your  effort  for  a  moment.  The  term 
'  big  things '  is  relative.  To  speak  it  is  merely  to  refer  to 
something  you  do  not  personally  understand.  Nothing 
seems  really  big  to  the  one  who  does  it.  Nothing  is 
difficult  when  you  understand  it.  The  growing  of  pota 
toes  in  a  backyard  is  just  as  wonderful  a  performance  as 
the  painting  of  one  of  these  pictures ;  it  would  be  more 
so  were  it  not  so  common  and  so  necessary.  The  construc 
tion  of  a  steam-engine  or  an  electric  dynamo  is  incom 
parably  more  remarkable  than  the  merging  of  separate 
thousands  of  capital  into  millions  of  combination,  yet 
multitudes  of  men  everywhere  can  do  either  of  the  former 
things  and  are  unnoticed.  We  worship  what  we  do  not 

[  214] 


Painter  and  Picture 

understand,  and  call  it  big;  but  the  man  in  the  secret 
realizes  the  mockery  and  smiles." 

Closer  came  the  dark  face.  The  black  eyes,  intense  and 
flashing,  held  the  listener  in  their  gaze. 

"  I  said  that  even  my  pleasures  seem  to  have  deserted 
me.  It  is  true.  I  used  to  like  to  wander  about  the  city, 
to  see  it  at  its  busiest,  to  loiter  amid  the  hum  and  the 
roar  and  the  ceaseless  activity.  I  saw  in  it  then  only 
friendly  rivalry,  like  a  hurdle  race  or  a  football  game  — 
something  pleasing  and  stimulating.  Now  it  all  affects 
me  in  just  the  reverse  way.  I  look  beneath  the  surface, 
and  my  heart  sinks  to  find  not  friendly  competition,  but 
a  battle,  where  men  and  women  fight  for  daily  bread, 
where  the  weak  are  crowded  and  trampled  upon  by  the 
strong.  In  ordinary  battle  the  maimed  and  the  crippled 
are  spared,  but  here  they  still  fight  on.  Mercy  or  quarter 
is  unknown.  Oh,  it  is  ghastly  !  I  used  to  take  pleasure  in 
books,  in  the  work  of  others ;  but  even  this  satisfaction 
has  been  taken  from  me  —  except  such  grim  satisfaction 
as  a  physician  may  feel  at  a  post  mortem.  The  very  labor 
that  made  me  a  success  in  literature  caused  me  to  be  a 
dissector  of  things  around  me.  To  learn  how  others 
attained  their  ends  I  must  needs  tear  their  work  apart 
and  study  the  fragments.  This  habit  has  become  a  part 
of  me.  I  overlook  the  beauty  of  the  product  in  the 
working  of  the  machinery  that  produced  it.  I  watch  the 
mixing  of  literary  confections,  served  to  the  reader  so  that 
upon  laying  down  the  book  he  may  have  a  good  taste  in 
his  mouth.  People  themselves,  those  I  meet  from  day  to 
day,  inevitably  go  through  the  same  metamorphosis.  I 


Ben  Blair 

see  them  as  characters  in  a  book.  Their  foibles  and 
peculiarities  are  grist  for  my  mill.  Everything,  everyone, 
when  I  appear,  slips  into  the  narrow  confines  of  a  printed 
page.  I  can't  even  spare  myself.  Fragments  of  me  can  be 
had  for  a  price  at  any  of  the  book-stalls.  I've  become 
public  property  —  and  with  no  one  to  blame  but  myself." 

The  flow  of  speech  halted.  The  speaker's  face  was  so 
near  now  that  the  girl  could  not  avoid  looking  at  it. 

"Do  you  wonder,"  he  concluded,  "that  I  am  not 
happy  ?  " 

The  girl  looked  up.  The  two  pairs  of  brown  eyes  met. 
Outwardly,  she  who  answered  was  calm ;  but  in  her  lap 
the  small  hands  were  clasping  each  other  tightly,  so  that 
the  blood  had  left  the  fingers. 

"  No,  I  do  not  wonder  now,"  she  answered  simply. 

66  And  you  understand  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  —  no,  there  's  so  much  —  Oh,  take  me  home, 
please ! "  The  sentence  ended  abruptly  in  a  plea.  The 
slender  body  was  trembling  as  with  cold.  "Take  me 
home,  please.  I  want  to  —  to  think." 

"  Florence  !  "     The  word  was  a  caress.     "  Florence  !  " 

But  the  girl  was  already  on  her  feet.  "  Don't  say  any 
more  to-day  !  I  can't  stand  it.  Take  me  home  !  " 

Sidwell  looked  at  her  closely  for  a  moment ;  then  the 
mask  of  conventionality,  which  for  a  time  had  lifted  from 
his  face,  dropped  once  more,  and  he  also  arose.  In  silence, 
side  by  side,  the  two  made  their  way  down  the  long  hall 
to  the  exit.  Out  of  doors,  the  afternoon  sun,  serene  and 
smiling,  gave  them  a  friendly  greeting. 

[216] 


CHAPTER  XIX 

A  VISITOR  FROM  THE  PLAINS 


«T[~"\APA,"  said  Florence,  next  morning,  as  they  two 

1—^     sat    alone    at    breakfast,    her    mother    having 
-•*•         reported    a    headache    and    failed    to    appear, 
"let's   go   somewhere,  away  from  folks,  for  a  week   or 
so." 

"  Why  this  sudden  change  of  front  ?  "  her  father  queried. 
"  Not  being  of  the  enemy  I  'm  entitled  to  the  plan  of  cam 
paign,  you  know." 

Florence  observed  him  steadily,  and  the  father  could  not 
but  notice  how  much  more  mature  she  seemed  than  the 
prairie  girl  of  a  few  months  ago. 

"  There  is  no  change  of  front  or  plan  of  campaign  as 
far  as  I  know,"  she  replied.  "  I  simply  want  to  get  away 
a  bit,  that 's  all."  She  returned  to  her  neglected  breakfast. 
"  There 's  such  a  thing  as  mental  dyspepsia,  you  know,  and 
I  feel  a  twinge  of  it  now  and  then.  I  think  this  new  life  is 
being  fed  to  me  in  doses  too  large  for  my  digestion." 

Mr.  Baker  eventually  acquiesced,  as  anyone  who  knew 
him  could  have  foretold  he  would  do.  His  wife,  also, 
when  the  plan  was  broached  to  her,  hesitatingly  agreed, 
but  at  the  last  moment  balked  and  declined  to  go ;  so  they 
left  without  her. 

[217] 


Ben  Blair 

The  small  town  to  which  they  went  had  ample  grass  and 
trees,  and  a  small  lake  convenient.  A  farmer's  family  re 
luctantly  consented  to  board  and  lodge  them  ;  also  to  give 
them  the  use  of  a  bony  horse  and  a  disreputable  one-seated 
wagon.  After  their  arrival  they  promptly  proceeded  to 
segregate  themselves  from  their  fellow-boarders.  The  first 
day  they  fished  a  little,  talked,  read,  slept,  meditated,  and 
smoked  —  that  is,  Mr.  Baker  did,  enough  for  two;  and 
Florence  assisted  by  rolling  cigarettes  when  the  bowl  of 
the  meerschaum  grew  uncomfortably  hot.  The  next  day 
they  repeated  the  programme,  and  also  the  next,  and  the 
next. 

"  I  think  I  could  stay  here  always,"  said  Mr.  Baker. 

"  I  rather  like  it  myself,"  Florence  admitted. 

Nevertheless,  they  returned  promptly  on  schedule-time. 
Mrs.  Baker  was  awaiting  them,  her  stiff  mariner  indicating 
that  she  had  not  been  doing  much  else  while  they  were 
away.  Without  finesse,  one  member  of  the  two  delin 
quents  was  informed  that  a  certain  man  of  considerable 
social  prominence,  Clarence  Sidwell  by  name,  had  called 
daily,  and,  Mrs.  Baker  fancied,  with  increasing  dissatisfac 
tion  at  their  absence.  Florence  found  in  her  mail  a  short 
note,  which  after  some  consideration  she  handed  without 
comment  to  her  father. 

He  read  —  and  read  again.  "  When  was  this  mailed  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  Over  a  week  ago,"  answered  Florence.  "  It  has  been 
here  for  several  days." 

It  was  therefore  no  surprise  to  the  Englishman  when 
that  very  evening,  as  he  sat  on  the  front  veranda,  his  heels 


A  Visitor  From  the  Plains 

on  the  railing,  watching  the  passage  of  equipages  swift  and 
slow,  he  saw  a  tall  young  man,  at  whom  passers-by  stared 
more  than  was  polite,  coming  leisurely  up  the  sidewalk, 
inspecting  the  numbers  on  the  houses.  As  he  came  closer, 
Mr.  Baker  took  in  the  details  of  the  long  free  stride,  of 
the  broad  chest,  the  square  uplifted  chin,  with  something 
akin  to  admiration.  Vitality  and  power  were  in  every  mo 
tion  of  the  supple  body ;  health  —  a  life  free  as  the  air 
and  sunshine  —  was  written  in  the  brown  of  the  hands,  the 
tan  of  the  face.  Even  his  clothes,  though  not  the  conven 
tional  costume  of  city  streets,  seemed  a  part  of  their 
wearer,  and  had  a  freedom  all  their  own.  The  broad- 
brimmed  felt  hat  was  obviously  for  comfort  and  protec 
tion,  not  for  show.  The  light-brown  flannel  shirt  was  the 
color  of  the  sinewy  throat.  The  trousers,  of  darker  wool, 
rolled  up  at  the  bottom,  exposed  the  high-heeled  riding- 
boots.  About  the  whole  man  —  for  he  was  very  near  now 
—  there  was  that  immaculate  cleanliness  which  the  world 
prizes  more  than  godliness. 

Scotty  dropped  his  feet  from  the  railing  and  advanced 
to  the  steps.  "  Hello,  Ben  Blair !  "  he  said. 

The  visitor  paused  and  smiled.  "How  do  you  do, 
Mr.  Baker?"  he  answered.  "I  thought  I'd  find  you 
along  here  somewhere.""  He  swung  up  the  short  walk, 
and,  mounting  the  steps,  grasped  the  Englishman's  ex- 
tended  hand.  For  a  moment  the  two  said  nothing. 
Then  Scotty  motioned  to  a  chair.  "Sit  down,  won't 
you  ?  "  he  invited. 

Ben  stood  as  he  was.  The  smile  left  his  face.  "  Would 
you  really  —  like  me  to  ?  "  he  asked  directly. 

[  219  ] 


Ben  Blair 

"  I  really  would,  or  I  would  n't  have  asked  you,"  Scotty 
returned,  with  equal  directness. 

Ben  took  the  proffered  chair,  and  crossed  his  legs  com 
fortably.  The  two  sat  for  a  moment  in  silent  com 
panionship. 

"  Tell  me  about  Rankin,"  suggested  Scotty  at  last. 

Ben  did  so.  It  did  not  take  long,  for  he  scarcely  men 
tioned  himself,  and  quite  omitted  that  last  incident  of 
which  Grannis  had  been  witness. 

"  And  —  the  man  who  shot  him  ?  "  Scotty  found  it  a 
bit  difficult  to  put  the  query  into  words. 

"They  swung  him  a  few  days  later.  Things  move 
rather  fast  out  there  when  they  move  at  all."" 

"  Were  « they '  the  cowboys? " 

"No,  the  sheriff  and  the  rest.  It  was  all  regular  — 
scarcely  any  spectators,  even,  I  heard." 

"  And  now  about  yourself.  Shall  you  be  in  the  city 
long?" 

"  I  hardly  know.  I  came  partly  on  business  —  but  that 
won't  take  me  long."  He  looked  at  his  host  significantly. 
"  I  also  had  another  purpose  in  coming." 

Scotty  moved  uncomfortably  in  his  seat.  "  Ben,"  he 
said  at  last,  "  I  M  like  to  ask  you  to  stay  with  us  if  I  could, 
but  —  "he  paused,  looking  cautiously  in  at  the  open  door 
—  "  but  Mollie,  you  know  —  It  would  mean  the  dickens' 
own  time  with  her." 

Ben  showed  neither  surprise  nor  resentment.  "  Thank 
you,"  he  replied.  "  I  understand.  I  could  n't  have  ac 
cepted  had  you  invited  me.  Let 's  not  consider  it." 

Again  the  seat  which  usually  fitted  the  Englishman  so 
[  220  ] 


A  Visitor  From  the  Plains 

well  grew  uncomfortable.  He  was  conscious  that  through 
the  curtains  of  the  library  window  some  one  was  watching 
him  and  the  new-comer.  He  had  a  mortal  dread  of  a  scene, 
and  one  seemed  inevitable. 

"  How 's  the  old  ranch  ?  "  he  asked  evasively. 

"  It 's  just  as  you  left  it.  I  have  n't  got  the  heart 
somehow  to  change  anything.  We  use  up  a  good  many 
horses  one  way  and  another  during  a  year,  and  when  I  get 
squared  around  I  'm  going  to  start  a  herd  there  with  one 
of  the  boys  to  look  after  it.  It  was  Rankings  idea  too." 

"  You  expect  to  keep  on  ranching,  then  ?  " 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  thought,  perhaps,  now  that  you  had  plenty  to  do 
with  —  You  're  young,  you  know." 

Ben  looked  out  across  the  narrow  plat  of  turf  deliber 
ately. 

"  Am  I  —  young  ?  Really,  I  'd  never  thought  of  it  in 
that  way." 

The  Englishman's  feet  again  mounted  the  railing  in  an 
attempt  at  nonchalance. 

"  Well,  usually  a  man  at  your  age  —  "  He  laughed. 
"  If  it  were  an  old  fellow  like  me  —  " 

"  Mr.  Baker,  I  thought  you  said  you  really  wished  me 
to  sit  down  and  chat  awhile  ? " 

Scotty  colored.  "  Why,  certainly.  What  makes  you 
think  —  " 

"Let's  be  natural  then." 

Scotty  stiffened.     His  feet  returned  to  the  floor. 

"  Blair,  you  forget  — "  But  somehow  the  sentence, 
bravely  begun,  halted.  Few  people  in  real  life  acted  a 

[  221  ] 


Ben  Blair 

part  with  Benjamin  Blair's  blue  eyes  upon  them.  "  Ben," 
he  said  instead,  "I'm  an  ass,  and  I  beg  your  pardon. 
I'll  call  Florence." 

But  the  visitor's  hand  restrained  him. 

"  Don't,  please.  She  knows  I  am  here.  I  saw  her  a 
bit  ago.  Let  her  do  as  she  wishes."  He  drew  himself  up 
in  the  cane  rocker.  "  You  asked  me  a  question.  As  far 
as  I  know  I  shall  ranch  it  always.  It  suits  me,  and  it 's 
the  thing  I  can  do  best.  Besides,  I  like  being  with  live 
things.  The  only  trouble  I  have,"  he  smiled  frankly,  "  is 
in  selling  stock  after  I  raise  them.  I  want  to  keep  them 
as  long  as  they  live,  and  put  them  in  greener  pastures 
when  they  get  old.  It 's  the  off  season,  but  I  brought  a 
couple  of  car-loads  along  with  me  to  Chicago,  to  the 
stock-yards.  I  '11  never  do  it  again.  It  has  to  be  done, 
I  know ;  people  have  to  be  fed  ;  but  I  Ve  watched  those 
steers  grow  from  calves." 

Scotty  searched  his  brain  for  something  relevant  and  im 
personal,  but  nothing  suggested  itself.  "  Ben  Blair,"  he 
ventured,  "  I  like  you." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Ben. 

They  were  silent  for  a  long  time.  Pedestrians,  singly 
and  in  pairs,  sauntered  past  on  the  walk.  Vehicle  after 
vehicle  scurried  by  in  the  street.  At  last  a  team  of  brown 
thoroughbreds,  with  one  man  driving,  drew  up  in  front 
of  the  house.  The  man  alighted,  tied  the  horses  to  the 
stone  hitching-post,  and  came  up  the  walk.  Simultane 
ously  Ben  saw  the  curtains  at  the  library  window  sway  as 
though  in  a  sudden  breeze. 

"  Splendid  horses,  those,"  he  commented. 
[  222  ] 


A  Visitor  From  the  Plains 

"Yes,"  answered  Scotty,  wishing  he  were  somewhere 
else  just  then.  "  Yes,"  he  repeated,  absently. 

"  Good-evening,  Mr.  Baker ! "  said  the  smiling  driver  of 
the  thoroughbreds. 

"^Good-evening,"  echoed  Scotty.  Then,  with  a  gesture, 
he  indicated  the  passive  Benjamin.  "My  friend  Mr. 
Blair,  Mr.  Sidwell." 

Sidwell  mounted  the  steps.  .  Ben  arose.  The  library 
curtains  trembled  again.  The  two  men  looked  each  other 
fairly  in  the  eyes  and  then  shook  hands. 

"  Pleased  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Blair,"  said  Sidwell. 

"  Thank  you,"  responded  Ben,  evenly. 

Down  in  the  depths  of  his  consciousness,  Scotty  was 
glad  this  frontier  youth  had  seen  fit  to  come  to  town. 
Taking  off  his  big  glasses  he  polished  them  industriously. 

"  Won't  you  sit  down  ?  "  he  invited  the  new-comer. 

Sidwell  moved  toward  the  door.  "  No,  thank  you. 
With  your  permission  1 11  go  inside.  I  presume  Miss 
Baker  —  " 

But  the  Englishman  was  ahead  of  him.  "Yes,"  he 
said,  "she's  at  home.  I'll  call  her,"  and  he  disap 
peared. 

Watching  the  retreating  figure,  Sidwell's  black  eyes 
tightened,  but  he  returned  and  took  the  place  Scotty 
had  vacated.  He  gave  his  companion  a  glance  which, 
swift  as  a  flash  of  light  upon  a  sensitized  plate,  took 
in  every  detail  of  the  figure,  the  bizarre  dress,  the  strik 
ing  face. 

46  You  are  from  the  West,  I  judge,  Mr.  Blair?"  he 
interrogated. 

[  223  ] 


Ben  Blair 

"  Dakota,"  said  Ben,  laconically. 

SidwelTs  gaze  centred  on  the  sombrero.  K  Cattle  raising, 
perhaps  ?  "  he  ventured. 

Ben  nodded.  "  Yes,  I  have  a  few  head  east  of  the 
river."  He  returned  the  other's  look,  and  Sid  well  had 
the  impression  that  a  searchlight  was  suddenly  shifted 
upon  him.  "Ever  been  out  there?" 

The  city  man  indicated  an  affirmative.  "  Yes,  twice : 
the  last  time  about  four  years  ago.  I  went  out  on  pur 
pose  to  see  a  steer-roping  contest,  on  the  ranch  of  a  man 
by  the  name  of  Gilbert,  I  remember.  A  cowboy  they 
called  Pete  carried  off  the  honors ;  had  his  '  critter '  down 
and  tied  in  forty-two  seconds.  They  told  me  that  was 
slow  time,  but  I  thought  it  lightning  itself." 

"  The  trick  can  be  done  in  thirty-five  with  the  wildest," 
commented  Ben. 

Sidwell  looked  out  on  the  narrow  street  meditatively. 
"  I  think  that  cowboy  exhibition,"  he  went  on  slowly, 
"  was  the  most  typically  American  scene  I  have  ever  wit 
nessed.  The  recklessness,  the  dash,  the  splendid  animal 
activity  —  there's  never  been  anything  like  it  in  the 
world."  His  eyes  returned  to  Ben's  face.  "  Ever  hear  of 
Gilbert,  did  you  ?  " 

"  I  live  within  twenty-three  miles  of  him." 

Sidwell  looked  interested.  "What  ranch,  if  I  may 
ask  ?  " 

"  The  Right  Angle  Triangle  we  call  it." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  Sidwell  nodded  in  recollection.  "  Ran  kin  is 
the  proprietor  —  a  big  man  with  a  grandfather's-shay 
buckboard.  I  saw  him  while  I  was  there." 

[224] 


A  Visitor  From  the  Plains 

Involuntarily  one  of  Ben's  long  legs  swung  over  the 
other.  "  That 's  the  place !  You  have  a"  good  memory." 

Sidwell  smiled.  "  I  could  n't  help  having  in  this  case. 
He  reminded  me  of  the  satraps  of  ancient  Persia.  He 
was  monarch  of  all  he  surveyed." 

Ben  said  nothing. 

"  He 's  still  the  big  man  of  the  country,  I  presume  ?  " 

"He  is  dead." 

"Dead?" 

"  I  said  so." 

The  light  of  understanding  came  to  the  city  man.  "  I 
see,"  he  observed.  "  He  is  gone,  and  you  —  " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Sidwell,"  interrupted  the 
other,  "but  suppose  we  change  the  subject?" 

Sidwell  colored,  then  he  laughed.  "  I  beg  your  pardon, 
Mr.  Blair.  No  offence  was  intended,  I  assure  you.  Mr. 
Rankin  interested  me,  that  was  all." 

Again  Ben  said  nothing,  and  the  conversation  lapsed. 

Meanwhile  within  doors  another  drama  had  been  taking 
place.  A  very  discomposed  young  lady  had  met  Scotty 
just  out  of  hearing. 

"  What  made  you  stop  Mr.  Sidwell,  papa  ? "  she  asked 
indignantly.  "  Why  did  n't  you  let  him  come  in  ?  " 

"  Because  I  did  n't  choose  to,"  explained  Scotty,  bluntly. 

"  But  I  wanted  him  to,"  she  said  imperiously.  "  I  don't 
care  to  see  Ben  to-night." 

Her  father  looked  at  her  steadily.  "  And  I  wish  you 
to  see  him,"  he  insisted.  "You  must  be  hypnotized 
to  behave  the  way  you  're  doing  !  You  forget  yourself 
completely ! " 

15  [  225  ] 


Ben  Blair 

The  brown  eyes  of  the  girl  flashed.  "  And  you  forget 
yourself !  I  'm  no  longer  a  child !  I  won't  see  him  to 
night  unless  I  wish  to  ! " 

Easy-going  Scotty  was  aroused.  His  weak  chin  set 
stubbornly. 

"  Very  well.  You  will  see  neither  of  them,  then.  I 
won't  have  a  man  insulted  without  cause  in  my  own  house. 
I'll  tell  them  both  you  're  sick." 

"  If  you  do,"  flamed  Florence,  "  I  '11  never  forgive  you  ! 
You  're  —  horrid,  if  you  are  my  father.  I  —  "  She  took 
refuge  in  tears.  "  Oh,  you  ought  to  be  ashamed  to  treat 
your  daughter  so!" 

The  Englishman  flicked  a  speck  of  ash  off  his  lounging 
coat.  "  I  am  ashamed,"  he  admitted  ;  "  but  not  of  what 
you  suggest."  He  turned  toward  the  door. 

"  Daddy,"  said  a  pleading  voice,  "  don't  you  —  care  for 
me  any  more  ?  " 

An  expression  the  daughter  had  never  seen  before,  but 
one  that  ever  after  haunted  her,  flashed  over  the  father's 
face. 

"  Care  for  you  ? "  he  exclaimed.  "  Care  for  you  ? 
That  is  just  the  trouble!  I  care  for  you  —  have  always 
cared  for  you  —  too  much.  I  have  sacrificed  my  self- 
respect  to  humor  you,  and  it 's  all  been  a  mistake.  I  see 
it  now  too  late." 

For  a  moment  the  two  looked  at  each  other ;  then  the 
girl  brushed  past  him.  "  Very  well,"  she  said  calmly, 
"  if  I  must  see  them  both,  at  least  permit  me  to  see  them 
by  myself." 

The  men  on  the  porch  arose  as  Florence  appeared. 
[  226  ] 


A  Visitor  From  the  Plains 

Their  manner  of  doing  so  was  characteristic  of  each.  Sid- 
well  got  to  his  feet  languidly,  a  bit  stiffly.  He  had  not 
forgotten  the  past  week.  Ben  Blair  arose  respectfully, 
almost  reverently,  unconscious  that  he  was  following  a 
mere  social  form.  Six  months  had  passed  since  he  had 
seen  this  little  woman,  and  his  soul  was  in  his  eyes  as  he 
looked  at  her. 

Just  without  the  door  the  girl  halted,  her  color  like  the 
sunset.  It  was  the  city  man  she  greeted  first. 

"  I  'm  very  glad  to  see  you  again,"  she  said,  and  a  dainty 
hand  went  out  to  meet  his  own. 

Sidwell  was  human.  He  smiled,  and  his  hand  detained 
hers  longer  than  was  really  necessary. 

"  And  I  'm  happy  indeed  to  have  you  back,*"  he  re 
sponded.  "  I  missed  you." 

The  girl  turned  to  the  impassive  but  observing 
Benjamin. 

"  I  am  glad  to  see  you,  too,  Mr.  Blair,"  she  said,  but 
the  voice  was  as  formal  as  the  handshake.  "  Papa  intro 
duced  you  to  Mr.  Sidwell,  I  suppose  ?  " 

Her  reserve  was  quite  unnecessary.  Outwardly,  Ben  was 
as  coldly  polite  as  she.  He  placed  a  chair  for  her  deferen 
tially  and  took  another  himself,  while  Sidwell  watched  the 
scene  with  interest.  Somewhere,  some  time,  if  he  lived, 
that  moment  would  be  reproduced  on  a  printed  page. 

"  Yes,"  responded  Ben,  "  Mr.  Sidwell  and  I  have  met." 
He  turned  his  chair  so  that  he  and  the  girl  faced  each 
other.  "  You  like  the  city,  your  new  life,  as  well  as  you 
expected,  I  trust  ?  " 

They  chatted  a  few  minutes  as  impersonally  as  two 
[  227  ] 


Ben  Blair 

chance  acquaintances  meeting  by  accident;  then  again 
Ben  arose.  "  I  judge  you  were  going  driving,"  he  said 
simply.  "  I  '11  not  detain  you  longer." 

Florence  melted.  Such  delicate  consideration  was 
unexpected. 

"  You  must  call  again  while  you  are  in  town,"  she  said. 

"  Thank  you,  I  shall,"  Ben  responded. 

Sidwell  felt  that  he  too  could  afford  to  be  generous. 

"  If  there  's  anything  in  the  way  of  amusement  or 
otherwise  that  I  can  do  for  you,  Mr.  Blair,  let  me  know," 
he  said,  proffering  his  address.  "  I  am  at  your  service  at 
any  time." 

Ben  had  reached  the  walk,  but  he  turned.  For  a  mo 
ment  wherein  Florence  held  her  breath  he  looked  steadily 
at  the  city  man. 

"  We  Western  men,  Mr.  Sidwell,"  he  said  at  last  slowly, 
"  are  more  or  less  solitaries.  We  take  our  recreation  as 
we  do  our  work,  alone.  In  all  probability  I  shall  not 
have  occasion  to  accept  your  kindness.  But  I  may  call 
on  you  before  I  leave."  He  bowed  to  both,  and  replaced 
his  hat.  A  "good-night"  and  he  was  gone. 

Watching  the  tall  figure  as  it  disappeared  down  the 
street,  Sidwell  smiled  peculiarly.  '*  Rather  a  positive 
person,  your  friend,"  he  remarked. 

Like  an  echo,  Florence  took  up  the  word.  "  Positive ! " 
The  small  hands  pressed  tightly  together  in  the  speaker's 
lap.  "Positive!  You  didn't  get  even  a  suggestion  of 
him  by  that.  I  saw  a  big  prairie  fire  once.  It  swept 
over  the  country  for  miles  and  miles,  taking  everything 
clean ;  and  the  men  fighting  it  might  have  been  so  many 

[  228  ] 


A  Visitor  From  the  Plains 

children  in  arms.  I  always  think  of  it  when  I  think  of 
Ben  Blair.  They  are  very  much  alike." 

The  smile  left  Sidwell's  face.  "  One  can  start  a  back 
fire  on  the  prairie,"  he  said  reflectively.  "  I  fancy  the 
same  process  might  work  successfully  with  Blair  also." 

"  Perhaps,"  admitted  Florence.  The  time  came  when 
both  she  and  Sidwell  remembered  that  suggestion. 

But  the  subject  was  too  large  to  be  dropped  immediately. 

"  Something  tells  me,"  Sidwell  added,  after  a  moment, 
"  that  you  are  a  bit  fearful  of  this  Blair.  Did  the  gentle 
man  ever  attempt  to  kidnap  you  —  or  anything  ?  " 

Florence  did  not  smile.     "  No,"  she  answered. 

"  What  was  it,  then  ?  Were  you  in  love,  and  he  cold  — 
or  the  reverse  ?  * 

Florence  dropped  her  chin  into  her  hands.  "  To  be 
frank  with  you,  it  was  —  the  reverse;  but  I  would  rather 
not  speak  of  it."  She  was  silent  for  a  moment.  "  You 
are  right,  though,"  she  continued,  rather  recklessly,  "  when 
you  say  I'm  afraid  of  him.  I  don't  dare  think  of  him, 
even.  I  want  to  forget  he  was  ever  a  part  of  my  life.  He 
overwhelms  me  like  sleep  when  I  'm  tired.  I  am  helpless." 

Unconsciously  Sidwell  had  stumbled  upon  the  closet 
which  held  the  skeleton.  "  And  I  —  "he  queried,  "  are 
you  afraid  of  me  ?  " 

The  girl's  great  brown  eyes  peered  out  above  her  hands 
steadily. 

"  No  ;  with  us  it  is  not  of  you  I  'm  afraid  —  it 's  of  my 
self."  She  arose  slowly.  "  I  'm  ready  to  go  driving  if  you 
wish,"  she  said. 

[  229  ] 


CHAPTER  XX 

CLUB  CONFIDENCES 

LATE  the  same  evening,  in  the  billiard-room  of  the 
"  Loungers  Club  "  Clarence  Sidwell  met  one  Win 
ston  Hough,  seemingly  by  chance,  though  in  fact 
very  much  the  reverse.  Big  and  blonde,  addicted  to 
laughter,  Hough  was  one  of  the  few  men  with  whom 
Sidwell  fraternized,  —  why,  only  the  Providence  which 
makes  like  and  unlike  attract  each  other  could  have 
explained.  However,  it  was  with  deliberate  intent  that 
Sidwell  entered  the  most  brilliantly  lighted  room  in 
the  place  and  sought  out  the  group  of  which  Hough  was 
the  centre. 

"  Hello,  Chad ! "  the  latter  greeted  the  new-comer.  "  I  Ve 
just  trimmed  up  Watson  here,  and  I  'm  looking  for  new 
worlds  to  conquer.  1 11  roll  you  fifty  points  to  see  who 
pays  for  a  lunch  afterward."" 

Sidwell  smiled  tolerantly.  "  I  think  it  would  be  better 
for  my  reputation  to  settle  without  playing.  Put  up  your 
stick  and  I  'm  with  you." 

Hough  shook  his  head.  "  No,"  he  objected,  "  I  "m  not  a 
Weary  Willie.  I  prefer  to  earn  my  dole  first.  Come  on." 

But  Sidwell  only  looked  at  him.  "  Don't  be  stubborn," 
he  said.  "  I  want  to  talk  with  you." 

[  230  ] 


Club  Confidences 

Hough  returned  his  cue  to  the  rack  lingeringly.  "  Of 
course,  if  you  put  it  that  way  there 's  nothing  more  to 
be  said.  As  to  the  stubbornness,  however  —  "  He  paused 
suggestively. 

Sidwell  made  no  comment,  but  led  the  way  directly 
toward  the  street. 

"What's  the  matter?"  queried  Hough,  when  he  saw 
the  direction  they  were  taking.  "  Is  n't  the  club  grill 
room  good  enough  for  you  ?  " 

Sidwell  pursued  his  way  unmoved.  "  I  said  I  wished  to 
talk  with  you." 

"  I  guess  I  must  be  dense,"  Hough  answered  gayly.  "  I 
certainly  never  saw  any  house  rules  that  forbid  a  man  to 
speak." 

Sidwell  looked  at  his  companion  with  a  whimsical  ex 
pression.  "  The  trouble  is  n't  with  the  house  rules  but 
with  you.  A  fellow  might  as  well  try  to  monopolize  the 
wheat-pit  on  the  board  of  trade  as  to  keep  you  alone 
here.  You're  too  confoundedly  popular,  Hough!  You 
draw  people  as  the  proverbial  molasses-barrel  attracts 
flies." 

The  big  man  laughed.  "  Your  compliment,  if  that 's 
what  it  was,  is  a  bit  involved,  but  I  suppose  it  11  have  to 
do.  Lead  on  ! " 

Sidwell  sought  out  a  modest  little  cafe  in  a  side  street 
and  selected  a  secluded  booth. 

"  What  '11  you  have  ?  "  he  asked,  as  the  waiter  appeared. 

Hough's  blue  eyes  twinkled.  "Are  you  with  me, 
whatever  I  order?" 

Sidwell  nodded. 

[231  ] 


Ben  Blair 

"Club  sandwiches  and  a  couple  of  bottles  of  beer," 
Hough  concluded. 

His  companion  made  no  comment. 

"Been  some  time,  hasn't  it,  since  you  surprised  your 
stomach  with  anything  like  this  ?  "  bantered  the  big  man, 
when  the  order  had  arrived  and  the  waiter  departed. 

Sidwell  smiled.    "  I  shall  have  to  confess  it,"  he  admitted. 

"  I  thought  so,"  remarked  Hough  dryly.  "  Next  time 
you  depict  a  plebeian  scene  you  can  remember  this  and 
thank  me."" 

This  time  Sidwell  did  not  smile.  "  You  're  hitting  me 
rather  hard,  old  man,"  he  said. 

"  You  deserve  it,"  laconically  answered  Hough. 

"  But  not  from  you  !  " 

Hough  meditatively  watched  the  beads  bursting  on  the 
surface  of  the  liquor. 

"  Admitted,"  he  said ;  "  but  the  people  who  ought  to 
touch  you  up  are  afraid  to  do  so,  and  someone  ought  to." 
He  smiled  across  the  table.  "  Pardon  the  brutal  frankness, 
but  it 's  true." 

Sidwell  returned  the  glance.  "  You  think  it 's  the  duty 
of  some  intimate  to  perform  the  kindness  of  this  —  touch 
ing  up  process  occasionally,  do  you  ?  " 

Hough  drank  deep  and  sighed  with  satisfaction.  "  Jove ! 
that  tastes  good !  I  limbered  up  my  joints  with  a  two- 
mile  walk  before  I  went  to  the  club  this  evening,  and  I  Ve 
been  as  dry  as  a  harvest-hand  ever  since.  All  the  wine  in 
France  or  elsewhere  won't  touch  the  spot  like  a  little  good 
old  brew  when  a  man  is  really  healthy."  He  recalled  him 
self.  "  Your  pardon,  Sidwell.  Seriously,  I  do  think 

[  232  ] 


Club  Confidences 

it 's  the  duty  of  our  best  friends  to  bring  us  back  to  earth 
now  and  then  when  we  've  strayed  too  far  away.  No  one 
who  does  n't  care  for  us  will  take  the  trouble." 

"  Our  very  best  friends,  I  judge,"  suggested  Sidwell. 

"  Certainly."  The  big  man  wondered  what  was  coming 
next. 

"A  —  wife,  for  instance." 

Hough  straightened  in  his  chair.  His  jolly  face  grew 
serious. 

"Are  you  in  earnest,  Chad,"  he  queried,  "or  are  you 
just  drawing  me  out  ?  " 

"  I  never  was  more  in  earnest  in  my  life." 

Hough  lost  sight  of  the  original  question  in  the  revela 
tion  it  suggested. 

"  Do  you  mean  you  Ve  really  going  to  get  married  at 
last?" 

Sidwell  forced  a  smile.  "If  the  matter  were  already 
settled,  it  would  be  too  late  to  consider  the  advisability 
of  the  move,  would  n't  it  ?  "  he  returned.  "  It  would  be 
an  established  fact,  and  as  such  useless  to  discuss.  I 
have  n't  asked  the  lady,  if  that  answers  your  question." 

Hough  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "  Theoretically, 
yes,  but  practically,  no.  In  your  individual  case,  desire 
and  gratification  amount  to  the  same.  You're  mighty 
fascinating  with  the  ladies,  Chad.  Few  women  would 
refuse  you,  if  you  made  an  effort  to  have  them  do  the 
reverse." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Sidwell,  equivocally. 

His  companion  scowled.  "  Appreciation  is  unnecessary. 
I  'm  not  even  sure  the  remark  was  complimentary." 

[  233  ] 


Ben  Blair 

They  sat  a  moment  in  silence,  while  the  beer  in  their 
glasses  grew  stale. 

"  Suppose  I  were  to  consider  marriage,  as  you  suggest," 
said  Sidwell  at  last.  "  What  do  you  think  would  be  the 
result?  Judging  from  your  expression,  some  opinion 
thereon  is  weighing  heavily  upon  your  mind." 

The  blonde  man  looked  up  keenly.  One  would  hardly 
have  recognized  him  as  the  easy-going  person  of  a  few 
moments  before. 

"It  will,  of  course,  depend  entirely  upon  whom  you 
choose.  That 's  hackneyed.  From  the  motions  of  straws, 
though,  this  Summer,  I  presume  it 's  admissible  that  I 
jump  at  conclusions  concerning  the  lady." 

The  other  nodded. 

"  In  that  case,  Chad,  as  surely  as  night  follows  day  it  '11 
be  a  failure."  The  blue  eyes  all  but  flashed.  "  Moreover, 
it 's  a  hideous  injustice  to  the  girl." 

Sidwell  stiffened  involuntarily. 

"  Your  prediction  sounds  a  bit  strong  from  one  who  is 
himself  a  benedict,"  he  returned  coldly.  "  Upon  what,  if 
you  please,  do  you  base  your  opinion  ?  " 

Hough  fidgeted  in  his  chair. 

"  You  want  me  to  be  frank,  brutally  frank,  once  more?" 

"Anything  you  wish.  I  'd  like  to  know  why  you  spoke 
as  you  did." 

"  The  reason,  then,  is  this.  You  two  would  no  more 
mix  than  oil  and  water." 

SidwelPs  face  did  not  change.  "You  and  Elise  seem 
to  jog  along  fairly  well  together,"  he  observed. 

Hough  scowled  as  before.     "  Yes,  but  there 's  no  pos- 
[  234  ] 


Club  Confidences 

sible  similarity  between  the  cases.  You  and  I  are  no 
more  alike  than  a  dog  and  a  rabbit.  To  come  down  to 
the  direct  issue,  you  're  city  bred,  and  Miss  Baker  has  been 
reared  in  the  country.  She  —  " 

Sidwell  held  up  his  hand  deprecatingly.  "To  re 
turn  to  the  illustration,  Elise  was  originally  from  the 
country." 

"  And  to  repeat  once  more,""  exclaimed  Hough,  "  there 's 
again  no  similarity.  Elise  and  I  have  been  married  eight 
years.  We  met  at  college,  and  grew  together  normally. 
We  were  both  young  and  adaptable.  Besides,  at  the  risk 
of  being  tedious,  I  reiterate  that  you  and  I  are  totally 
unlike.  I  'm  only  partially  urban  ;  you  are  completely  so  — 
to  your  very  finger-tips.  I  'm  half  savage,  more  than  half. 
I  like  to  be  out  in  the  country,  among  the  mountains, 
upon  the  lakes.  I  like  to  hunt  and  fish,  and  dawdle 
away  time ;  you  care  for  none  of  these  things.  I  can 
make  money  because  I  inherited  capital,  and  it  almost 
makes  itself;  but  it's  not  with  me  a  definite  ambition. 
I  have  no  positive  object  in  life,  unless  it  is  to  make  the 
little  woman  happy.  You  have.  Your  work  absorbs  the 
best  of  you.  You  have  n't  much  left  for  friendships,  even 
mild  ones  like  ours.  I  've  been  with  you  for  a  good  many 
years,  old  man,  and  I  know  what  I'm  talking  about. 
You  are  old,  older  than  your  years,  and  you  're  not  young 
even  in  them.  You're  selfish  —  pardon  me,  but  it 's 
true — abominably  selfish.  Your  character,  your  point 
of  view,  your  habits  —  are  all  formed.  You  '11  never 
change  ;  you  would  n't  if  you  could.  Miss  Baker  is  hardly 
more  than  a  child.  I  know  her  —  I  've  made  it  a  point 

[  235  ] 


Ben  Blair 

to  know  her  since  I  saw  you  were  interested  in  her. 
Everything  in  the  world  rings  genuine  to  her  as  yet. 
She  has  n't  learned  to  detect  the  counterfeit,  and  when  the 
knowledge  does  come  it  will  hurt  her  cruelly.  Shell 
want  to  get  back  to  nature  as  surely  as  a  child  with  a 
bruised  finger  wants  its  mother;  and  you  can't  go  with 
her.  Most  of  all,  Chad,  she  's  a  woman.  You  don't 
know  what  that  means  —  no  unmarried  man  does  know. 
Even  we  married  ones  never  grasp  the  subtleties  of  woman- 
nature  completely.  I've  been  studying  one  for  eight 
years,  and  at  times  she  escapes  me.  But  one  thing  I 
have  learned  ;  they  demand  that  they  shall  be  first  in  the 
life  of  the  man  they  love.  Florence  Baker  will  demand 
this,  and  after  the  first  novelty  has  worn  off  you  won't  sat 
isfy  her.  I  repeat  once  more,  you  're  too  selfish  for  that. 
As  sure  as  anything  can  be,  Chad  Sid  well,  if  you  marry 
that  girl  it  will  end  in  disaster  —  in  divorce,  or  something 
worse." 

The  voice  ceased,  and  the  place  was  of  a  sudden  very 
quiet.  Sidwell  tapped  on  his  thin  drinking-glass  with  his 
finger-nail.  His  companion  had  never  seen  him  nervous 
before.  At  last  he  looked  up  unshiftingly.  "  You  've 
given  me  a  pretty  vivid  portrait  of  myself,  of  what  I  'm 
good  for,  and  what  not,"  he  said.  "  Would  you  like  me 
to  return  the  compliment  ?  " 

Again  Hough  wondered  what  was  coming.  "Yes,  I 
suppose  so,"  he  answered  hesitatingly. 

"  You  've  often  remarked,"  said  Sidwell,  slowly,  "  that 
you  knew  of  no  work  for  which  you  were  especially 
adapted.  I  think  I  could  fit  you  out  exactly  to  your 

[  236  ] 


Club  Confidences 

liking.  Just  get  a  position  as  guard  to  a  lake  of  brim 
stone  in  the  infernal  regions/' 

Hough  laughed,  but  Sid  well  did  not.  "I  fancy,11  he 
continued  monotonously,  "  I  see  you  now,  a  long  needle- 
pointed  spear  in  your  hands,  jabbing  back  the  poor  sinners 
who  tried  to  crawl  out."" 

"Chad!"  interrupted  the  other  reproachfully.  "Chad!" 
But  Sidwell  did  not  stop. 

"  You  'd  stand  well  back,  so  that  the  sulphur  fumes 
would  n't  irritate  your  own  nostrils,  and  so  that  when  the 
bubbles  from  the  boiling  broke  they  would  n't  spatter 
you,  and  with  the  finest  kind  of  intuition  and  the  most 
delicate  aim  you'd  select  the  tenderest  place  in  your 
intended  victim's  anatomy  for  your  spear-point."  He 
smiled  ironically  at  the  picture.  "  Gad !  you  'd  be  a  howl 
ing  success  there,  old  man  !  " 

An  expression  of  genuine  contrition  formed  on  Hough's 
jolly  face.  "  1  'm  dead  sorry  I  hurt  you,  Chad,"  he  said, 
"  but  you  asked  me  to  be  frank." 

"  You  certainly  were  frank,"  rejoined  the  other  bluntly. 

"  What  I  said,  though,  was  true,"  reiterated  Hough. 

Sidwell  leaned  a  bit  forward,  his  face,  handsome  in  spite 
of  its  shadings  of  discontent,  clear  in  the  light. 

"Perhaps,"  he  went  on.  "The  trouble  with  you  is 
that  you  don't  give  me  credit  for  a  single  redeeming 
virtue.  No  one  in  this  world  is  wholly  good  or  wholly 
bad.  You  forget  that  I  'm  a  human  being,  with  natural 
feelings  and  desires.  You  make  me  out  a  sort  of  machine, 
cunningly  constructed  for  a  certain  work.  You  limit  my 
life  to  that  work  alone.  A  human  being,  even  one  born 

[237] 


Ben  Blair 

of  the  artificial  state  called  civilization,  isn't  a  contriv 
ance  like  a  typewriter  which  you  can  make  work  and 
then  shut  up  in  a  box  until  it  is  wanted  again.  There 
are  certain  emotions,  certain  wants,  you  can't  suppress 
by  logic.  Even  a  dog,  if  you  imprison  him  alone,  will 
go  mad  in  time.  I  'm  a  living  man,  with  red  blood  in 
stead  of  ink  in  my  veins,  not  an  abstract  mathematical 
problem.  I  Ve  had  my  full  share  of  work  and  unhappi- 
ness.  You  '11  have  to  give  me  a  better  reason  for  re 
maining  without  the  gate  of  the  promised  land  than 
you've  yet  done." 

Hough  looked  at  the  speaker  impotently.  "  You  mis 
understood  me,  Chad,  if  you  thought  I  was  trying  to 
keep  you  from  your  due,  or  from  anything  which  would 
really  make  for  your  happiness.  I  was  simply  trying  to 
prevent  something  I  feel  morally  certain  you  11  regret. 
Because  one  is  n't  entirely  happy  is  no  adequate  reason 
why  he  should  make  himself  more  unhappy.  I  can't  say 
any  more  than  I  've  already  said ;  there's  nothing  more 
to  say.  My  best  reason  for  disapproving  your  contem 
plated  action  I  gave  you  first,  and  you  've  not  considered 
it  at  all.  It's  the  injustice  you  do  to  a  girl  who 
doesn't  realize  what  she  is  doing.  With  your  disposi 
tion,  Chad,  you'd  take  away  from  her  something  which 
neither  God  nor  man  can  ever  give  her  back  —  her  trust 
in  life." 

Sidwell's  long  fingers  restlessly  twirled  the  glass  before 
him.  The  remainder  of  the  untouched  beer  was  now  as 
so  much  stagnant  water. 

"  If  I  don't  undeceive  her  someone  else  will,"  he  said. 
[  238  ] 


Club  Confidences 

"It's  inevitable.  She'll  have  to  adjust  herself  to  things 
as  they  are,  as  we  all  have  to  do." 

Hough  made  a  motion  of  deprecation. 

"  Miss  Baker  is  no  longer  a  child,1'  continued  Sidwell. 
"  If  you  Ve  studied  her  as  you  say  you  've  done,  you  've 
discovered  that  she  has  very  definite  ideas  of  her  own. 
It's  true  that  I  haven't  known  her  long,  but  she  has  had 
an  opportunity  to  know  me  well  such  as  no  one  else  has 
ever  had,  not  even  you.  No  one  can  say  that  she  is 
leaping  in  the  dark.  Time  and  time  again,  at  every 
opportunity,  I  have  stripped  my  very  soul  bare  for  her 
observation.  The  thing  has  not  been  easy  for  me ;  in 
deed,  I  know  of  nothing  I  could  have  done  that  would 
have  been  more  difficult.  Though  the  present  instance 
seems  to  give  the  statement  the  lie,  I  am  not  easily  confi 
dential,  my  friend.  I  have  had  a  definite  object  in  doing 
as  I  have  done  with  Miss  Baker.  I  am  trying,  as  I  never 
tried  before  in  my  life,  to  get  in  touch  with  her —  as  1 11 
never  try  again,  no  matter  how  the  effort  results,  to  get 
in  touch  with  a  person.  She  knows  the  good  and  bad  of 
me  from  A  to  Z.  She  knows  the  life  I  lead,  the  kind  of 
people  who  make  up  that  life,  their  aims,  their  amuse 
ments,  their  standards,  social  and  moral,  as  thoroughly  as 
I  can  make  her  know  them.  I  have  taken  her  everywhere, 
shown  her  every  phase  of  my  surroundings.  For  once  in 
my  life  at  least,  Hough,  I  have  been  absolutely  what  I 
am,  —  absolutely  frank.  Farther  than  that  I  cannot  go. 
I  am  not  my  brother's  keeper.  She  is  an  individual  in  a 
world  of  individuals;  a  free  agent,  mental,  moral,  and 
physical.  The  decision  of  her  future  actions,  the  choice 

[  239  ] 


Ben  Blair 

she  makes  of  her  future  life,  must  of  necessity  rest  with 
her.  For  some  reason  I  cannot  point  to  a  definite  ex 
planation  and  say  this  or  that  is  why  she  is  attractive 
to  me.  She  seems  to  offer  the  solution  of  a  want  I  feel. 
No  system  of  logic  can  convince  me  that,  after  having 
been  honest  as  I  have  been  with  her,  if  she  of  her  own 
free  will  consents  to  be  my  wife,  I  have  not  a  moral 
right  to  make  her  so." 

Again  Hough  made  a  deprecatory  motion.  "  It  is  use 
less  to  argue  with  you,""  he  said  helplessly,  "  and  I  won't 
attempt  it.  If  I  were  to  try,  I  could  n't  make  you  realize 
that  the  very  methods  of  frankness  you  have  used  to  make 
Miss  Baker  know  you  intimately  have  defeated  their  own 
purpose,  and  have  unconsciously  made  you  an  integral  part 
of  her  life.  I  said  before  that  when  you  wish  you  're  irre 
sistibly  fascinating  with  women.  All  that  you  have 
said  only  exemplifies  my  statement.  It  does  not,  how 
ever,  in  the  least  change  the  homely  fact  that  oil  and 
water  won't  permanently  mix.  You  can  shake  them  to 
gether,  and  for  a  time  it  may  seem  that  they  are  one ; 
but  eventually  they'll  separate,  and  stay  separate.  As 
I  said  before,  though,  I  do  not  expect  you  to  realize 
this,  or  to  apply  it.  I  can't  make  what  I  know  by  in 
tuition  sufficiently  convincing.  I  wish  I  could.  I  feel 
that  somehow  this  has  been  my  opportunity  and  I  have 
failed." 

For  the  instant  Sidwell  was  roused  out  of  himself  He 
looked  at  his  companion  with  appreciation.  "At  least 
you  can  have  the  consolation  of  knowing  you  have  honestly 
tried,"  he  said  earnestly. 

[240] 


Club  Confidences 

Hough  returned  the  look  with  equal  steadiness.  "  But 
nevertheless  I  have  failed." 

Sidwell  put  on  his  hat,  its  broad  brim  shading  his  eyes 
and  concealing  their  expression. 

"  Providence  willing,"  he  said  finally,  "  I  shall  ask  Miss 
Baker  to  be  my  wife." 


is  [  241  ] 


CHAPTER   XXI 

LOVE  IN  CONFLICT 

THE  habits  of  a  lifetime  are  not  changed  in  a  day. 
Ben  Blair  was  accustomed  to  rising  early,  and  he 
was  astir  next  morning  long  before  the  city 
proper  was  thoroughly  awake.  In  the  hotel  where  he  was 
stopping,  the  night  clerk  looked  his  surprise  as  he  nodded 
a  stereotyped  "  Good-morning."  The  lobby  was  in  con 
fusion,  undergoing  its  early  morning  scrubbing,  and  the 
guest  sought  the  street.  The  sun  was  just  risen,  but 
the  air  was  already  sultry,  casting  oppression  and  languor 
over  every  detail  of  the  scene.  The  bare  brick  and  stone 
fronts  of  the  buildings,  the  brown  cobblestones  of  the 
pavements,  the  dull  gray  of  the  sidewalks,  all  looked  in 
hospitable  and  forbidding.  Few  vehicles  were  yet  in 
motion  —  distributors  of  necessities,  of  ice,  of  milk,  of 
vegetables  —  and  they  partook  of  the  general  indolence. 
The  horses'  ears  swayed  listlessly,  or  were  set  back  in 
dogged  endurance.  The  drivers  lounged  stolidly  in  their 
seats.  Even  the  few  passengers  on  the  monotonously 
droning  cars  but  added  to  the  impression  of  tacit  con 
formity  to  the  inevitable.  Poorly  dressed  as  a  rule,  tired 
looking,  they  gazed  at  their  feet  or  glanced  out  upon  the 
street  with  absent  indifference.  It  was  all  depressing. 

[  242  ] 


Love  in  Conflict 

Ben,  normal,  vigorous,  country  bred,  shook  himself  and 
walked  on.  He  was  as  susceptible  as  a  child  to  surround 
ing  influences,  and  to  those  now  about  him  he  was  dis 
tinctly  antagonistic.  Life,  as  a  whole,  particularly  work, 
the  thing  that  does  most  to  fill  life,  he  had  found  good. 
That  others  should  so  obviously  find  it  different  grated 
upon  him.  He  wanted  to  get  away  from  their  presence  ; 
and  making  inquiry  of  the  first  policeman  he  met,  he 
sought  the  nearest  park. 

All  his  life  he  had  heard  of  the  beauty  of  the  New  York 
parks.  The  few  people  he  knew  who  had  visited  them 
emphasized  this  beauty  above  all  other  features.  Perhaps 
in  consequence  he  was  expecting  the  impossible.  At  least, 
he  was  disappointed.  Here  was  nature,  to  be  sure,  but 
nature  imprisoned  under  the  thumb  of  man.  The  visitor 
had  a  healthy  desire  to  roll  on  the  grass,  to  turn  himself 
loose,  to  stretch  every  joint  and  muscle ;  yet  signs  on  each 
side  gave  warning  to  "  keep  off."  The  trees,  it  must  be 
admitted,  were  beautiful  and  natural,  —  they  could  not 
live  and  be  otherwise ;  but  somehow  they  had  the  air  of 
not  being  there  of  their  own  free-will. 

Ben  chose  a  bench  and  sat  down.  A  listlessness  was 
upon  him  that  the  ozone  of  the  prairies  had  never  let  him 
feel.  He  felt  cramped  for  room,  as  though,  should  he  draw 
as  full  a  breath  as  he  wished,  it  would  exhaust  the  supply. 
A  big  freshly-shaven  policeman  strolled  by,  eying  him 
suspiciously.  It  gave  the  young  man  the  impression  of 
being  a  prisoner  out  on  good  behavior ;  and  in  an  indefi 
nite  way  it  almost  insulted  his  self-respect.  For  the  lack 

of  something  better  to  do  he  watched  the  minion  of  the 

[  243  ] 


Ben  Blair 

law  as  he  pursued  his  beat.  Not  Ben  Blair  alone,  but 
every  person  the  officer  passed,  went  through  this  chal 
lenging  inspection.  The  countryman  had  been  too  much 
preoccupied  to  notice  that  he  had  companions ;  but  now 
that  his  interest  was  aroused,  he  began  inspecting  the  oc 
cupants  of  the  other  benches.  The  person  nearest  him 
was  a  little  old  man  in  a  crumpled  linen  suit.  Most  of 
the  time  his  nose  was  close  to  his  morning  paper ;  but 
now  and  then  he  raised  his  face  and  looked  away  with  an 
absent  expression  in  his  faded  near-sighted  eyes.  Was  he 
enjoying  his  present  life  ?  Ben  would  have  taken  his  oath 
to  the  contrary.  Again  there  flashed  over  him  the  im 
pression  of  a  prison  with  this  fellow-being  in  confinement. 
There  was  indescribable  pathos  in  that  dull  retrospective 
gaze,  and  Ben  looked  away.  In  the  land  from  which  he 
came  there  could  not  be  found  such  an  example  of  hope 
less  and  useless  age.  There  the  aged  had  occupation,  — 
the  care  of  their  children's  children,  a  garden,  an  in 
terest  in  crops  and  growing  things,  a  fame  as  prophets 
of  weather,  —  but  such  apathy  as  this,  never. 

A  bit  farther  away  was  another  type,  also  a  man,  badly 
dressed  and  unshaven.  His  battered  felt  hat  was  drawn 
low  over  the  upper  half  of  his  face,  and  he  was  stretched 
flat  upon  the  narrow  bench.  He  was  far  too  long  for  his 
bed,  and  to  accommodate  his  superfluous  length  his  knees 
were  bent  up  like  a  jack-knife.  Carrying  with  them  the 
baggy  trousers,  —  he  wore  no  underclothes,  —  they  left 
a  hairy  expanse  between  their  ends  and  the  yellow,  rusty 
shoes.  His  chest  rose  and  fell  in  the  motion  of  sleep. 

Ben    Blair   had   seen   many  a  human  derelict  on  the 
[  244  ] 


Love  in  Conflict 

frontier;  the  country  was  full  of  them,  —  adventurers, 
searchers  after  lost  health — popularly  denominated  "one- 
lungers" — soldiers  of  fortune;  but  he  had  never  known 
such  a  class  as  this  man  represented,  —  useless  cumberers 
of  the  earth,  wanderers  by  day,  sleepers  on  the  benches  of 
public  parks  by  night.  Had  he  been  a  student  of  sociol 
ogy  he  might  have  found  a  certain  morbid  interest  in  the 
spectacle ;  but  it  was  merely  depressing  to  him  ;  it  de 
stroyed  what  pleasure  he  might  otherwise  have  taken  in 
the  place.  This  man  was  but  a  step  beneath  those  dull 
toilers  he  had  seen  on  the  cars.  They  had  not  yet  given 
up  the  struggle  against  the  inevitable,  or  were  too  stolid 
to  rebel;  while  he  — 

Ben  sprang  to  his  feet  and  began  retracing  his  steps. 
People  bred  in  the  city  might  be  callous  to  the  miseries  of 
their  fellows  ;  those  provided  with  plenty  might  be  con 
tent  to  live  their  lives  side  by  side  with  such  hopeless 
poverty,  might  even  apply  to  their  own  profit  the  necessi 
ties  of  others ;  but  his  was  the  hospitality  and  considera 
tion  of  the  frontier,  the  democracy  that  shares  its  last 
loaf  with  its  fellow  no  matter  who  he  may  be,  and  shares 
it  without  question.  The  heartless  selfishness  of  the  con 
ditions  he  was  observing  almost  made  his  blood  boil.  He 
felt  that  he  was  amid  an  alien  people:  their  standards 
were  not  as  his  standards,  their  lives  were  not  of  his  life, 
and  he  wanted  to  hurry  through  with  his  affairs  and  get 
away.  He  returned  to  the  hotel. 

Breakfast  was  ready  by  this  time,  and  after  some  ex 
ploration  he  succeeded  in  finding  the  dining-room.  The 
head-waiter  showed  him  to  a  seat  and  held  his  chair  obse- 

[245] 


Ben  Blair 

quiously.  Another,  a  negro  of  uncertain  age,  fairly  ex 
uding  dignity  and  impassive  as  a  sphinx,  poured  water 
over  the  ice  in  his  glass  with  a  practised  hand,  produced 
the  menu,  and  waited  for  his  order.  Without  intending 
it,  the  countryman  had  selected  a  rather  fashionable  place, 
and  the  bill  of  fare  was  unintelligible  as  Sanskrit  to  him. 
He  looked  at  it  helplessly.  A  man  across  the  table,  ob 
serving  his  predicament,  smiled  involuntarily.  Ben  caught 
the  expression,  looked  at  its  bearer  meaningly,  looked  until 
it  vanished,  and  until  a  faint  red,  obviously  a  stranger  to 
that  face,  took  its  place.  By  a  sudden  inspiration  Blair's 
hand  went  to  his  pocket  and  returned  with  a  silver  coin. 

"Bring  me  what  a  healthy  man  usually  eats  at  this 
time  of  day,  and  plenty  of  it,"  he  said.  He  glanced  ab 
sently,  blandly  past  his  companion. 

The  gentleman  of  color  looked  at  the  speaker  as  though 
he  were  a  strange  animal  in  a  "  zoo." 

"  Yes,  sah,"  he  said. 

While  he  was  waiting,  Ben  looked  around  him  with  in 
terest.  The  room  was  big,  high,  massive  of  pillars  and  of 
beams.  Every  detail  had  been  carefully  arranged.  The 
heavy  oak  tables,  the  spotless  linen,  the  sparkling  silver 
and  glassware  appealed  to  the  sense  of  luxury.  The 
coolness  of  the  place,  due  to  unseen  ventilating  fans  which 
he  heard  faintly  droning  somewhere  in  the  ceiling,  and  in 
creased  by  the  tile  floor  and  the  skilfully  adjusted  shades, 
was  delightful.  The  few  other  people  present  were  as 
immaculate  as  bath,  laundry,  tailor,  and  modiste  could 
make  them.  From  one  group  at  which  Ben  looked  came 
the  suppressed  sound  of  a  woman's  laugh  ;  from  another, 


Love  in  Conflict 

a  man's  voice,  well  modulated,  illustrated  a  point  with  a 
story.  At  a  small  table  in  an  alcove  sat  four  young  men, 
and  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  for  them  it  was  yet  very 
early  in  the  day,  the  pop  of  a  champagne  cork  was  heard, 
and  soon  repeated.  Blair,  fresh  from  a  glimpse  of  the 
outer  and  under  world,  observed  it  all,  and  drew  compar 
isons.  Again  he  saw  the  huddled  figure  of  the  tramp  on 
the  bench ;  and  again  he  heard  the  careless  music  of  the 
woman's  laugh.  He  saw  the  dull  animal  stare  of  workers 
on  their  way  to  uncongenial  toil ;  the  hands  still  unsteady 
from  yesterday's  excesses  lifting  to  dry  lips  the  wine  that 
would  make  them  still  more  unsteady  on  the  morrow. 
Could  these  contrasts  be  forever  continued  ?  he  wondered. 
Would  they  be  permitted  to  exist  indefinitely  side  by 
side  ?  Again,  problem  more  difficult,  could  it  be  possible 
that  the  condition  in  which  they  existed  was  life?  He 
could  not  believe  it.  His  nature  rebelled  at  the  thought. 
No  ;  life  was  not  an  artificial  formula  like  this.  It  was 
broad  and  free  and  natural,  as  the  prairies,  his  prairies, 
were  natural  and  free.  This  other  condition  was  a  delir 
ium,  a  momentary  oblivion,  of  which  the  four  young  men 
in  the  alcove  were  a  symbol.  Transient  pleasure,  the  life 
might  mean  ;  but  the  reverse,  the  inevitable  reaction  as 
from  all  intoxication,  that  — 

Finishing  his  breakfast,  Ben  lit  a  cigar  and  sauntered 
out  to  the  street.  He  had  intended  spending  the  morning 
seeing  the  town ;  but  for  the  present  he  felt  he  had  had 
enough  —  all  he  could  mentally  digest.  Without  at  first 
any  definite  destination,  in  mere  excess  of  healthy  animal 
activity,  he  began  to  walk ;  but  his  principal  object  in 

[  247  ] 


Ben  Blair 

coming  to  the  city,  the  object  he  made  no  effort  to  con 
ceal,  acted  upon  him  like  a  lodestone,  and  almost  ere  he 
was  aware  he  was  well  out  in  the  residence  portion  of  the 
city  and  headed  directly  for  the  Baker  home.  He  was 
unaware  that  morning  was  not  the  fashionable  time  to 
call  upon  a  lady.  To  him  the  fact  of  inclination  and  of 
presence  in  the  vicinity  was  sufficient  justification ;  and 
mounting  the  well-remembered  steps  he  rang  the  doorbell 
stoutly.  A  prim  maid  in  cap  and  diminutive  apron,  a  re 
cent  addition  to  the  household,  answered  his  ring. 

"  I  'd  like  to  see  Miss  Baker,  if  you  please,1'  said  Ben. 

The  girl  inspected  the  visitor  critically.  Beneath  her 
surface  decorum  he  had  a  suspicion  that  she  was  inclined 
to  smile. 

"  I  hardly  think  Miss  Baker  is  up  yet,"  she  announced 
at  last.  "  Will  you  leave  your  card  ?  " 

Ben  looked  at  the  sun,  now  well  elevated  in  the  sky, 
with  an  eye  trained  in  the  estimate  of  time.  He  drew 
mental  conclusions  silently. 

"  No,"  he  said.     "  I  will  call  later." 

He  did  call  later,  — two  hours  later,  — to  receive  from 
Scotty  himself  the  intelligence  that  Florence  was  out  but 
would  soon  return.  Evidently  the  Englishman  had  been 
instructed ;  for,  though  he  added  an  invitation  to  wait,  it 
was  only  half-hearted,  and  being  declined  the  matter  was 
not  pressed. 

Ben  returned  to  the  hotel,  ate  his  lunch,  and  considered 
the  situation.  A  lesser  man  would  have  given  up  the 
fight  and  hidden  his  bruise ;  but  Benjamin  Blair  was  in 
no  sense  of  the  word  a  little  man.  He  had  come  to  town 

[24,8] 


Love  in  Conflict 

with  definite  intent  of  seeing  a  certain  girl  alone,  and  see 
her  alone  he  would.  At  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  he 
again  pressed  the  button  on  the  Baker  door-post,  and  again 
waited. 

Again  it  was  the  maid  who  answered,  and  at  the  ex 
pected  query  she  smiled  outright.  It  seemed  to  her  a 
capital  joke  that  she  was  assisting  in  playing  upon  this 
man  of  unusual  attire. 

"Miss  Baker  is  engaged,1'  she  announced,  with  the 
glibness  of  previous  preparation. 

To  her  surprise  the  visitor  did  not  depart.  Instead, 
he  gave  her  a  look  which  sent  her  mirth  glimmering. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said.  The  door  leading  into  the  ves 
tibule  and  from  thence  into  the  library  was  open,  and 
without  form  of  invitation  he  entered.  "  Tell  her,  please, 
that  I  will  wait  until  she  is  not  engaged." 

The  girl  hesitated.  This  particular  exigency  had  not 
been  anticipated. 

"  Shall  I  give  her  a  name  ? "  she  suggested,  with  an 
attempt  at  formality. 

Ben  Blair  did  not  turn.     "  Tell  her  what  I  said." 

He  chose  a  chair  facing  the  entrance  and  sat  down. 
Departing  on  her  mission,  he  heard  the  maid  open  another 
door  on  the  same  floor.  There  was  for  a  moment  a  mur 
mur  of  feminine  voices,  one  of  which  he  recognized  ;  then 
silence  again,  as  the  door  closed. 

A  half-hour  passed,  lengthened  into  an  hour,  all  but 
repeated  itself,  and  still  apparently  Florence  was  en 
gaged  ;  and  still  the  visitor  sat  on.  No  power  short  of 
fire  or  an  earthquake  could  have  moved  him  now.  Every 

[  249  ] 


Ben  Blair 

fragment  of  the  indomitable  perseverance  of  his  nature 
was  aroused,  and  instead  of  discouraging  him  each  minute 
as  it  passed  only  made  his  determination  the  stronger. 
He  shifted  his  chair  so  that  it  faced  the  window  and 
the  street,  crossed  his  legs  comfortably,  half  closed  his 
eyes,  resting  yet  watchful,  and  meditatively  observed  the 
growing  procession  of  homeward  bound  wage-earners  in  car 
and  on  foot. 

Suddenly  there  was  the  rustle  of  a  woman's  skirts,  and 
he  was  conscious  that  he  was  no  longer  alone.  He  turned 
as  he  saw  who  it  was,  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  despite  the 
intentional  slight  of  the  long  wait,  a  smile  flashed  to  his 
face.  He  started  to  advance,  but  stopped. 

"  You  wished  to  see  me,  I  understand,"  a  voice  said 
coldly,  as  the  speaker  halted  just  within  the  doorway. 

Ben  Blair  straightened.  The  hot  blood  mounted  to  his 
brain,  throbbing  at  his  throat  and  temples.  It  was  not 
easy  for  him  to  receive  insult ;  but  outwardly  he  gave  no 
sign. 

"  I  think  I  have  demonstrated  the  fact  you  mention," 
he  replied  calmly. 

Florence  Baker  clasped  her  hands  together.  "  Yes, 
your  persistency  is  admirable,"  she  said. 

Ben  Blair  caught  the  word.  "Persistency,"  he  re 
marked,  "  seems  the  only  recourse  when  past  friendship 
and  common  courtesy  are  ignored." 

Florence  made  no  reply,  and  going  forward  Ben  placed 
a  chair  deferentially.  "  It  seems  necessary  for  me  to  re 
verse  the  position  of  host  and  guest,"  he  said.  "  Won't 
you  be  seated?" 

[  250  ] 


Love  in  Conflict 

The  girl  did  not  stir. 

"  I  hardly  think  it  necessary,"  she  answered. 

"  Florence,1'  Ben  Blair's  great  chin  lifted  meaningly,  "  I 
will  not  be  offended  whatever  you  may  do.  I  have  some 
thing  I  wish  to  say  to  you.  Please  sit  down." 

The  girl  hesitated,  and  almost  against  her  will  looked 
the  man  fairly  in  the  eyes,  while  her  own  blazed.  Once 
more  she  felt  his  dominance  controlling  her,  felt  as  she  did 
when,  in  what  seemed  the  very  long  ago,  he  had  spread 
his  blanket  for  her  upon  the  prairie  earth. 

She  sat  down. 

Ben  drew  up  another  chair  and  sat  facing  her.  "Why," 
he  was  leaning  a  bit  forward,  his  elbow  on  his  knee,  "why, 
Florence  Baker,  have  you  done  everything  in  your  power  to 
prevent  my  seeing  you  ?  What  have  I  done  of  late,  what 
have  I  ever  done,  to  deserve  this  treatment  from  you  ?  " 

The  girl  evaded  his  eyes.  "  It  is  not  usually  considered 
necessary  for  a  lady  to  give  her  reasons  for  not  wishing  to 
see  a  gentleman,"  she  parried.  The  handkerchief  in  her 
lap  was  being  rolled  unconsciously  into  a  tight  little  ball. 
"  The  fact  itself  is  sufficient." 

Ben's  free  hand  closed  on  the  chair-arm  with  a  mighty 
grip.  "  I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  said,  "  but  I  cannot  agree 
with  you.  There 's  a  certain  amount  of  courtesy  due  be 
tween  a  woman  and  a  man,  as  there  is  between  man  and 
man.  It  is  my  right  to  repeat  the  question." 

The  girl  felt  the  cord  drawing  tighter,  felt  that  in  the 
end  she  would  bend  to  his  will. 

"  And  should  I  refuse  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  You  won't  refuse.'1 

[251] 


Ben  Blair 

The  girl's  eyes  returned  to  his.  Even  now  she  won 
dered  that  they  did  so,  that  try  as  she  might  she  could 
not  deny  him.  His  dominance  over  her  was  well-nigh 
absolute.  Yet  she  was  not  angry.  An  instinct  that  she 
had  felt  before  possessed  her ;  the  longing  of  the  weaker 
for  the  stronger  —  the  impulse  to  give  him  what  he 
wished.  Her  whole  womanhood  went  out  to  him,  with 
an  entire  confidence  that  she  would  never  give  to  an 
other  human  being.  Naturally,  he  was  her  mate;  natu 
rally,  —  but  she  was  not  natural.  She  hesitated  as  she 
had  done  once  before,  a  multitude  of  conflicting  desires 
and  ambitions  seething  in  her  brain.  If  she  could  but 
eliminate  the  artificial  in  her  nature,  the  desire  for  the 
empty  things  of  the  world,  then  —  But  she  could  not 
yet  give  them  up,  and  he  could  never  be  made  to  care 
for  them  with  her.  She  was  nearer  now  to  giving  them 
up,  to  giving  up  everything  for  his  sake,  than  when  she 
had  sat  alone  with  him  out  on  the  prairie.  She  realized 
this  with  an  added  complexity  of  emotion;  but  even  yet, 
even  yet  — 

A  minute  passed  in  silence,  a  minute  of  which  the  girl 
was  unconscious.  It  was  Ben  Blair's  voice  repeating  his 
first  question  that  recalled  her.  This  time  she  did  not 
hesitate. 

"  I  think  you  know  the  reason  as  well  as  I  do.  If  we 
were  mere  friends  or  acquaintances  I  would  be  only  too 
glad  to  see  you  ;  but  we  are  not,  and  never  can  be  merely 
friends.  We  have  got  to  be  either  more  or  less."  The 
voice,  brave  so  far,  dropped.  A  mist  came  over  the  brown 
eyes.  "  And  we  can't  be  more,"  she  added. 

[  252  ] 


Love  in  Conflict 

The  man's  grip  on  the  chair-arm  loosened.  He  bent 
his  face  farther  forward.  "Miss  Baker,""  he  exclaimed. 
"  Florence ! " 

Interrupting,  almost  imploring,  the  girl  drew  back. 
"  Don't !  Please  don't !  "  she  pleaded ;  then,  as  she  saw 
the  futility  of  words,  with  the  old  girlish  motion  her  face 
dropped  into  her  hands.  "Oh,  I  knew  it  would  mean  this 
if  I  saw  you  ! "  she  wailed.  "  You  see  for  yourself  we 
cannot  be  mere  friends ! " 

The  man  did  not  stir,  but  his  eyes  changed  color  and 
seemed  to  grow  darker.  "No,"  he  said,  "we  cannot  be 
mere  friends ;  I  care  for  you  too  much  for  that.  And  I 
cannot  be  silent  when  I  came  away  off  here  to  see  you. 
I  would  never  respect  myself  again  if  I  were.  You  can 
do  what  you  please,  say  what  you  please,  and  I  '11  not  re 
sent  it  —  because  it  is  you.  I  will  love  you  as  long  as  I 
live.  I  am  not  ashamed  of  this,  because  it  is  you  I  love, 
Florence  Baker."  He  paused,  looking  tenderly  at  the 
girl's  bowed  head. 

"  Florence,"  he  went  on  gently,  "  you  don't  know  what 
you  are  to  me,  or  what  your  having  left  me  means.  I 
often  go  over  to  your  old  ranch  of  a  night  and  sit  there 
alone,  thinking  of  you,  dreaming  of  you.  Sometimes  it 
is  all  so  vivid  that  I  almost  feel  that  you  are  near,  and 
before  I  know  it  I  speak  your  name.  Then  I  realize 
you  are  not  there,  and  I  feel  so  lonely  that  I  wish  I  were 
dead.  I  think  of  to-morrow,  and  the  next  day,  and 
the  next  —  the  thousands  of  days  that  I'll  have  to  live 
through  without  you  —  and  I  wonder  how  I  am  going  to 
do  it." 

[253] 


Ben  Blair 

The  girl's  face  sank  deeper  into  her  hands.  A  muffled  sob 
escaped  her.  "  Please  don't  say  any  more  I  "  she  pleaded. 
"  Please  don't !  I  can't  stand  it !  " 

But  the  man  only  looked  at  her  steadily. 

"  I  must  finish,"  he  said.  "  I  may  never  have  a  chance 
to  say  this  to  you  again,  and  something  compels  me  to  tell 
you  of  myself,  for  you  are  my  good  angel.  In  many  ways 
it  is  of  necessity  a  rough  life  I  lead,  but  you  are  always 
with  me,  and  I  am  the  better  for  it.  I  have  n't  drank  a 
drop  since  I  came  to  know  that  I  loved  you,  and  we  ranch 
ers  are  not  accustomed  to  that,  Florence.  But  I  never 
will  drink  as  long  as  I  live ;  for  I  '11  think  of  you,  and  I 
could  n't  then  if  I  would.  Once  you  saved  me  from  some 
thing  worse  than  drink.  There  was  a  man  who  shot  Mr. 
Rankin  and  before  this,  from  almost  the  first  thought  I 
can  remember,  I  had  sworn  that  if  I  ever  met  him  I 
would  kill  him.  We  did  meet.  I  followed  him  dav 
after  day  until  at  last  I  caught  up  with  him,  until  he  was 
down  and  my  hands  were  upon  his  throat.  But  I  did  n't 
hurt  him,  Florence,  after  all;  I  thought  of  you  just  in 
time." 

He  was  silent,  and  suddenly  the  place  seemed  as  still  as 
an  empty  church.  The  girl's  sobs  were  almost  hysterical. 
The  man's  mood  changed ;  he  reached  over  and  touched 
her  gently  on  the  shoulder. 

"Forgive  me  for  hurting  you,  Florence,"  he  said.  "I 
—  I  could  n't  help  telling  you." 

Involuntarily  the  girlish  figure  straightened. 

"  Forgive  you  ! "  A  tear-stained  face  was  looking  into 
his.  "  Forgive  you !  I  '11  never  be  able  to  forgive  myself! 

[  254  ] 


Love  in  Conflict 

You  are  a  million  times  too  good  for  me,  Ben  Blair.  For 
give  you !  I  ought  never  to  cease  asking  you  to  forgive 
me!" 

"  Florence ! "  pleaded  the  man.     "  Florence  ! " 

But  the  girl,  in  her  turn,  went  on.  "  I  have  felt  all  the 
while  that  certain  things  I  saw  here  were  unreal,  that  they 
were  net  what  they  seemed.  I  have  prevaricated  to  you 
deliberately.  I  have  n't  really  been  here  long,  but  it  seems 
to  me  now  that  it's  been  years.  As  you  said  I  would, 
I  Ve  looked  beneath  the  surface  and  seen  the  sham.  At 
first  I  would  n't  believe  what  I  saw  ;  but  at  last  I  could  n't 
help  believing  it,  and,  oh,  it  hurt !  I  never  expect  to  be 
so  hurt  again.  I  couldn't  be.  One  can  only  feel  that 
way  once  in  one's  life."  The  small  form  trembled  with 
the  memory,  and  the  listener  made  a  motion  as  if  to  stop 
her ;  but  she  held  him  away. 

"  It  is  n't  that  I  'm  any  longer  blind ;  I  am  acting  now 
with  my  eyes  wide  open.  It  is  something  else  that  keeps 
me  from  you  now,  something  that  crept  in  while  I  was 
learning  my  lesson,  something  I  can't  tell  you."  Once 
more  the  girl  could  not  control  herself,  and  sobbing, 
trembling,  she  covered  her  face.  "  Ben,  Ben,"  she  wailed, 
"  why  did  you  ever  let  me  come  here  ?  You  could  have 
kept  me  if  you  would  —  you  can  do  —  anything.  I  would 
have  loved  you  —  I  did  love  you  all.  the  time  ;  only,  only 
—  "  She  could  say  no  more. 

For  a  second  the  man  did  not  understand  ;  then  like  a 
flash  came  realization,  and  he  was  upon  his  feet  pacing  up 
and  down  the  narrow  room.  To  lose  an  object  one  cares 
for  most  is  one  thing;  to  have  it  filched  by  another  is 

[  255  ] 


Ben  Blair 

something  very  different.  He  was  elemental,  this  man 
from  the  plains,  and  in  some  phases  very  illogical.  The 
ways  of  the  higher  civilization,  where  man  loves  many 
times,  where  he  dines  and  wines  in  good  fellowship  with 
him  who  is  the  husband  of  a  former  love  —  these  were  not 
his  ways.  White  anger  was  in  his  heart,  not  against  the 
woman,  but  against  that  other  man.  His  fingers  itched 
to  be  at  his  throat,  regardless  of  custom  or  law.  Tempo 
rarily,  the  rights  and  wishes  of  the  woman,  the  prize  of 
contention,  were  forgotten.  Two  young  bucks  in  the 
forest  do  not  consider  the  feelings  of  the  doe  that  is  the 
reward  of  the  victor  in  the  contest  when  they  meet ;  and 
Ben  Blair  was  very  like  these  wild  things.  Only  by  an  ef 
fort  of  the  will  could  he  keep  from  going  immediately  to 
find  that  other  man,  —  intuition  made  it  unnecessary  to 
ask  his  name.  As  it  was,  he  wanted  now  to  be  away. 
The  tiny  room  seemed  all  at  once  stifling.  He  wanted  to 
be  out  of  doors  where  the  sun  shone,  out  where  he  could 
think.  He  seized  his  hat,  then  suddenly  remembered, 
paused  to  glance  —  and  that  instant  was  his  undoing,  and 
another  man's  —  Clarence  Sidwell's  —  salvation. 

And  Florence  Baker,  at  whom  he  had  glanced  ?  She 
was  not  tearful  or  hysterical  now.  Instead,  she  was  look 
ing  at  him  out  of  wide-open  eyes.  Well  she  knew  this 
man,  and  knew  the  volcano  she  had  aroused. 

"  You  won't  hurt  him,  Ben  ! "  she  said.  "  You  won't 
hurt  him  !  For  my  sake,  say  you  won't ! " 

The  devil  lurking  in  the  qowboy's  blue  eyes  vanished, 
but  the  great  jaw  was  still  set.  He  reached  out  and 
caught  the  girl  by  the  shoulder.  "  Florence  Baker,"  he 

[  256  ] 


Love  in  Conflict 

said,  "  on  your  honor,  is  he  worth  it  —  is  he  worth  the 
sacrifice  you  ask  of  me  ?  Answer !  " 

But  the  girl  did  not  answer,  did  not  stir.  "  You  won't 
hurt  him  !  "  she  repeated.  "  Say  you  won't !  " 

A  moment  longer  Ben  Blair  held  her ;  then  his  hands 
dropped  and  he  turned  toward  the  vestibule. 

"  I  don't  know,"  he  said.     "  I  don't  know." 


11  [  257  ] 


CHAPTER   XXII 

TWO  FRIENDS  HAVE  IT  OUT 

CLARENCE  SIDWELL  was  alone  in  his  down 
town  bachelor  quarters ;  that  is,  alone  save  for 
an  individual  the  club-man's  friends  termed  his 
"  Man  Friday,"  an  undersized  and  very  black  negro  named 
Alexander  Hamilton  Brown,  but  answering  to  the  contrac 
tion  "  Alec."     Valet,  man  of  all  work,  steward,  Alec  was 
as  much  a  fixture  about  the  place  as  the  floor  or  the  ceil 
ing  ;  and,  like  them,  his  presence,  save  as  a  convenience, 
was  ignored. 

The  rooms  themselves  were  on  the  eleventh  floor  of  a 
down-town  office-building,  as  near  the  roof  as  it  had  been 
possible  for  him  to  secure  suitable  quarters.  For  eight 
years  Sidwell  had  made  them  his  home  when  he  was  in 
town.  The  circle  of  his  friends  had  commented,  his 
mother  and  sisters  (his  father  had  been  long  dead)  had 
protested,  when,  a  much  younger  man,  he  first  severed 
himself  from  the  semi-colonial  mansion  which  for  three 
generations  had  borne  the  name  of  Sidwell ;  but  as  usual, 
he  had  had  his  own  way. 

"  I  want  to  work  when  I  feel  so  inclined,  when  the  mood 
is  on  me,  whether  it 's  two  o'clock  of  the  afternoon  or  of 
the  morning,"  he  had  explained ;  "  and  I  can't  do  it  with 
out  interruption  here  with  you  and  your  friends." 

[258] 


Two  Friends  Have  it  Out 

For  the  same  reason  he  had  chosen  to  live  near  the  sky. 
There,  high  above  the  noise  and  confusion,  he  could  ob 
serve  and  catch  the  influence  of  the  activity  which  is  in 
itself  a  powerful  stimulant,  without  experiencing  its  un 
pleasantness.  Essentially,  the  man  was  an  aesthete.  If  he 
went  to  a  race  or  a  foot-ball  game  he  wished  to  view  it  at 
a  distance.  To  be  close  by,  to  mingle  in  the  dust  of  ac 
tion,  to  smell  the  sweat  of  conflict,  to  listen  to  the  low- 
voiced  imprecations  of  the  defeated,  detracted  from  his 
pleasure.  He  could  not  prevent  these  features  —  there 
fore  he  avoided  them. 

This  particular  evening  he  was  doing  nothing,  which 
was  very  unusual  for  him.  The  necessity  for  society,  or  for 
activity,  physical  or  mental,  had  long  ago  become  as  much 
a  part  of  his  nature  as  the  desire  for  food.  Dilettante 
musician  as  well  as  artist,  when  alone  at  this  time  of  the 
evening  he  was  generally  at  the  upright  piano  in  the  cor 
ner.  Even  Alec  noticed  the  unusual  lack  of  occupation  on 
this  occasion,  and  exposed  the  key-board  suggestively ;  but, 
observing  the  action,  Sidwell  only  smiled. 

"  Think  I  ought  to,  Alec  ?  "  he  queried. 

The  negro  rolled  his  eyes.  Despite  his  long  service,  he 
had  never  quite  lost  his  awe  of  the  man  he  attended. 

"  Sho,  yo  always  do  that,  or  something,  sab,"  he  said. 

Sidwell  smiled  again ;  but  it  was  not  a  pleasant  smile. 
So  this  was  the  way  of  it !  Even  his  servant  had  observed 
his  habitual  restlessness,  and  had  doubtless  commented 
upon  it  to  his  companions  in  the  way  servants  have  of 
passing  judgment  upon  their  employers.  And  if  Alec  had 
noticed  this,  then  how  much  more  probable  it  was  that 

[259] 


Ben  Blair 

others  of  SidwelPs  numerous  acquaintances  had  noticed 
it  also !  He  winced  at  the  thought.  That  this  was  his 
skeleton,  and  that  he  had  endeavored  to  keep  it  hidden, 
Sid  well  did  not  attempt  to  deny  to  himself.  One  of  the 
reasons  he  had  not  given  to  his  family  for  establishing 
these  down-town  quarters  was  this  very  one.  Time  and 
again,  when  he  had  felt  the  mood  of  protest  strong  upon 
him,  he  had  come  here  and  locked  the  doors  to  fight  it  out 
alone.  But  after  all,  it  had  been  useless.  The  fact  had 
been  obvious,  despite  the  trick ;  mayhap  even  more  so  on 
account  of  it.  Like  the  Wandering  Jew  he  was  doomed, 
followed  by  a  relentless  curse. 

He  shook  himself,  and  walking  over  to  the  sideboard 
poured  out  a  glass  of  Cognac  and  drank  it  as  though  it 
were  wine.  Sidwell  did  not  often  drink  spirits.  Experi 
ence  had  taught  him  that  to  begin  usually  meant  to  end 
with  regret  the  following  day ;  but  to-night,  with  his 
present  mood  upon  him,  the  action  was  as  instinctive  as 
breathing.  He  moved  back  to  his  chair  by  the  window. 

The  evening  was  hot,  on  the  street  depressingly  so,  but 
up  here  after  the  sun  was  set  there  was  always  a  breeze, 
and  it  was  cool  and  comfortable.  The  man  looked  out 
over  the  sooty,  gravelled  roofs  of  the  surrounding  lower 
buildings,  and  down  on  the  street,  congested  with  its 
flowing  stream  of  cars,  equipages,  and  pedestrians.  Times 
without  number  he  had  viewed  the  currents  arid  counter- 
currents  of  that  scene,  but  never  before  had  he  so  caught 
its  vital  spirit  and  meaning.  Born  of  the  elect,  —  reared 
and  educated  among  them,  —  the  supercilious  superiority 
of  his  class  was  as  much  a  part  of  him  as  his  name.  While 

[260] 


Two  Friends  Have  it  Out 

he  realized  that  physically  the  high  and  the  low  were  con 
structed  on  practically  the  same  plan,  he  had  been  wont 
to  consider  them  as  on  totally  separate  mental  planes. 
That  the  clerk  and  the  roustabout  on  ten  dollars  a  week, 
breathing  the  same  atmosphere, — seeing  daily,  hourly,  min 
ute  by  minute,  from  separate  viewpoints,  the  same  life, — 
that  they  should  have  in  common  the  constant  need  of 
diversion  had  never  before  occurred  to  him.  Multitudes 
of  times,  as  a  sociologist,  or  as  a  literary  man  in  search 
of  realism,  he  had  visited  the  haunts  of  the  under-man. 
Languidly,  critically,  as  he  would  have  observed  at  the 
"  zoo  "  an  animal  with  whose  habits  he  was  unacquainted, 
he  had  watched  this  rather  curious  under-man  in  his  fool 
ish,  or  worse  than  foolish,  endeavor  to  find  amusement  or 
oblivion.  He  had  often  been  interested,  as  by  a  clown  at  a 
circus ;  but  more  frequently  the  sight  had  merely  inspired 
disgust,  and  he  had  returned  to  his  own  diversions,  his 
own  efforts  to  secure  the  same  end,  with  an  all  but  un 
conscious  thankfulness  that  he  was  not  such  as  that  other. 
To-night,  for  the  first  time,  and  with  a  wonder  we  all 
feel  when  the  obvious  but  long  unseen  suddenly  becomes 
apparent,  the  primary  fact  of  human  brotherhood,  irre 
spective  of  caste,  came  home  to  him.  To-night  and  now 
he  realized,  diminutive  in  the  distance  as  they  were,  that 
the  swarm  of  figures  that  he  had  hitherto  considered  mere 
animals  vain  of  display  were  impelled  upon  the  street, 
compelled  to  keep  moving,  moving,  without  a  pre-arranged 
destination,  by  the  same  spirit  of  unrest  that  had  sent  him 
to  the  buffet.  At  that  moment  he  was  probably  nearer  to 
his  fellow-man  than  ever  before  in  his  life ;  but  the  truth 

[261] 


Ben  Blair 

revealed  made  him  the  more  unhappy.  He  had  grown  to 
consider  his  own  unhappiness  totally  different  and  infi 
nitely  more  acute  than  that  of  others ;  he  had  even  taken 
a  sort  of  morbid,  paradoxical  pleasure  in  considering  it 
so ;  and  now  even  this  was  taken  from  him.  Not  only 
had  his  own  secret  skeleton  been  visible  when  he  believed 
it  concealed,  but  all  around  him  there  suddenly  sprang  up 
a  very  cemetery  of  other  skeletons,  grinning  at  his  blind 
ness  and  discomfiture.  His  was  not  a  nature  to  extract 
content  from  common  discomfort,  and  but  one  palliative 
suggested  itself, — the  dull  red  decanter  on  the  sideboard. 
Rising  again  and  filling  a  glass,  he  returned  and  stood  for 
a  moment  full  before  the  open  casement  of  the  window 
gazing  down  steadily. 

How  long  he  stood  there  he  hardly  knew.  Once  Alec's 
dark  face  peered  into  the  room,  and  disappeared  as  sud 
denly.  At  last  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 

"  Come  in,"  invited  Sid  well,  without  moving.  The  door 
opened  and  closed,  and  Winston  Hough  stood  inside. 
The  big  man  gave  one  glance  at  the  surroundings,  saw  the 
empty  glass,  and  backed  away.  "Pardon  my  intrusion," 
he  said  with  his  hand  on  the  knob. 

Sidwell  turned.  "  Intrusion  —  nothing ! "  He  placed 
the  decanter  with  glasses  and  a  box  of  cigars  on  a  conven 
ient  table.  "  Come  and  have  a  drink  with  me,"  and  the 
liquor  flowed  until  both  glasses  were  nearly  full. 

Hough  hesitated  in  a  reluctance  that  was  not  feigned. 
He  felt  that  discretion  was  the  better  part  of  valor,  and 
that  it  would  be  well  to  escape  while  he  could,  even  at  the 
price  of  discourtesy. 

[  262  ] 


Two  Friends  Have  it  Out 

« Really,"  he  said,  "  I  only  dropped  in  to  say  hello. 
j » 

"Nonsense!"  interrupted  Sidwell.  "You  must  think 
I'm  as  innocent  as  a  new-born  lamb.  Come  over  here 
and  sit  down.11 

Hough  hesitated,  but  yielded. 

Sidwell  lifted  his  glass.  "Here's  to  —  whatever  the 
trouble  may  be  that  brought  you  here.  People  don't  visit 
me  for  pleasure,  or  unless  they  have  nowhere  else  to  go. 
Drink  deep!" 

They  drank  ;  and  then  Sidwell  looking  at  Hough  said, 
"  Well,  what  is  it  this  time  ?  Going  to  reform  again,  or 
something  of  that  kind,  are  you  ?  " 

Hough  did  not  attempt  evasion.  He  knew  it  would  be 
useless.  "  No,"  he  said ;  "  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  'm  lone 
some  —  beastly  lonesome." 

Sidwell  smiled.  "  Ah,  I  thought  so.  But  why,  pray  ? 
Are  n't  you  a  married  man  with  an  ark  of  refuge  always 
waiting  ?  " 

Hough  made  a  grimace.  "  Yes,  that 's  just  the  trouble. 
I  'm  too  much  married,  too  thoroughly  domesticated." 

The  other  looked  blank.  "  I  fail  to  understand.  Cer 
tainly  you  and  Elise  have  n't  at  last  —  " 

"No,  no;  not  that."  Hough  repelled  the  suggestion 
with  a  gesture  as  though  it  were  a  tangible  object.  "  Elise 
left  to-day  to  spend  a  month  with  her  uncle  up  in  north 
ern  Wisconsin,  and  I  can't  get  out  of  town  for  a  week. 
I  feel  as  I  fancy  a  small  bird  feels  when  it  has  fallen  out 
of  the  nest  while  its  mother  is  away.  The  bottom  seems 
to  have  dropped  out  of  town  and  left  me  stranded." 

[  263  ] 


Ben  Blair 

The  host  observed  his  guest  humorously  —  a  bit  ma 
liciously.  "  It  is  good  for  you,  you  complacent  benedict," 
he  remarked  unsympathetically.  "  You  can  understand 
now  the  normal  state  of  mind  of  bachelors.  Perhaps  after 
a  few  more  days  you  11  have  been  tortured  enough  to  re 
tract  the  argument  you  made  to  me  about  matrimony. 
I  repeat,  it  ""s  poetic  justice,  and  good  for  a  man  now  and 
then  to  have  a  dose  of  his  own  medicine." 

Hough  smiled  as  at  an  oft-heard  joke.  "  All  right,  old 
man,  have  it  as  you  please  ;  only  let 's  steer  clear  of  a  use 
less  discussion  of  the  subject  to-night." 

"With  all  my  heart,"  said  Sidwell.  The  decanter  was 
once  more  in  his  hand.  "  Let 's  drink  to  the  very  good 
health  of  Elise  on  her  journey." 

Hough  hesitated.  He  had  a  feeling  that  there  was  an 
obscure  desecration  in  the  toast,  but  it  was  not  tangible 
enough  to  resent.  "  To  her  very  good  health,"  he  repeated 
in  turn. 

For  a  moment  he  looked  steadily  into  the  face  of  his 
companion,  now  a  trifle  flushed.  Again  an  inward  moni 
tor  warned  him  it  were  better  to  go  ;  but  the  first  flood  of 
the  liquor  had  reached  his  brain,  and  the  temptation  to 
remain  was  strong. 

"  By  the  way,  how  are  you  coming  on  with  your  own 
affair  of  the  heart  ?  Have  you  propounded  the  moment 
ous  question  to  the  lady  ?  " 

Sidwell  pulled  forward  the  box  of  cigars  and  helped 
himself  to  one.  "  No,"  he  returned  with  deliberation.  "  I 
have  n't  had  a  good  opportunity.  A  gentleman  from  the 
West,  where  they  wear  their  hair  long  and  their  coat-tails 

[  264,  ] 


Two  Friends  Have  it  Out 

short,  has  suddenly  appeared  like  an  obscuring  cloud  on 
the  Baker  sky.  I  have  a  suspicion  that  he  has  aspirations 
for  the  hand  of  the  lady  in  question.  Anyhow,  he's 
haunted  the  house  like  a  ghost  to-day.  Mother  Baker  has 
for  some  reason  taken  a  fancy  to  your  humble  servant,  and 
over  the  'phone  she  has  kept  me  informed  of  the  stranger's 
tribulations.  He  seems  to  be  meeting  with  sufficient  diffi 
culties  without  my  interposition,  so  out  of  the  goodness  of 
my  heart  I  Ve  given  him  an  open  field.  I  hope  you  ap 
preciate  my  consideration.  I  fear  he 's  not  of  a  stripe  to 
do  so  himself." 

Hough  lit  his  cigar.  "  Yes,  it  certainly  was  kind  of 
you,"  he  said.  "Very  kind." 

With  a  sweep  of  his  hand  Sidwell  brought  the  two 
glasses  together  with  a  click.  "  I  think  so.  Kind  enough 
to  deserve  commemoration  by  a  taste  of  the  elixir  of  life, 
don't  you  agree  ?  "  and  the  liquor  flowed  beneath  a  hand 
steady  in  the  first  stages  of  intoxication. 

Hough  pushed  back  his  chair.  "No,"  he  protested. 
"I've  had  enough." 

" Enough ! "  The  other  laughed  unmusically.  " Enough ! 
You  have  n't  begun  yet.  Drink,  and  forget  your  loneli 
ness,  you  benedict  disconsolate  !  " 

But  again  the  big  man  shook  his  head.  "  No,"  he  re 
peated.  "  I  've  had  enough,  and  so  have  you.  We  '11  be 
drunk,  both  of  us,  if  we  keep  up  this  clip  much  longer." 

The  smile  left  the  host's  face.  "  Drunk  !  "  he  echoed. 
"  Since  when,  pray,  has  that  exalted  state  of  the  conscious 
ness  begun  to  inspire  terror  in  you  ?  Drunk  !  Winston 
Hough,  you  're  the  last  man  I  ever  thought  would  fail  to 

[  265  ] 


Ben  Blair 

prove  game  on  an  occasion  like  this !  We  're  no  nearer 
being  babes  than  we  were  the  last  time  we  got  together, 
unless  the  termination  of  life  approximates  the  beginning. 
Drink!" 

But  still,  this  time  in  silence,  Hough  shook  his  head. 
From  a  partially  open  door  leading  into  the  adjoining 
room  the  negro's  eyes  peered  out. 

Sidwell  shifted  in  his  seat  with  exaggerated  deliberation 
and  leaned  forward.  His  dark  mobile  face  worked  passion 
ately,  compellingly.  "  Winston  Hough,"  he  challenged,  "  do 
you  wish  to  remain  my  friend  ?  " 

"  I  certainly  do." 

"  Then  you  know  what  to  do." 

Deep  silence  fell  upon  the  room.  Not  only  the  eyes  but 
the  whole  of  Alec's  face  appeared  through  the  doorway. 
Hough  could  no  more  have  resisted  longer  than  he  could 
have  leaped  from  the  open  window.  They  drank  together. 

"Now,"  said  Sidwell,  "just  to  show  that  you  mean  it, 
we'll  have  another." 

And  soon  the  enemy  that  puerile  man  puts  into  his 
mouth  to  steal  his  brains  was  enthroned. 

Sidwell  sank  into  his  chair,  and  lighting  his  cigar  sent 
a  great  cloud  of  smoke  curling  up  over  his  head.  Hand 
and  tongue  were  steady,  unnaturally  so,  but  the  mood  of 
irresponsible  confidence  was  upon  him. 

"  Since  you  've  decided  to  remain  my  friend,"  he  said, 
"  I  'm  going  to  tell  you  something  confidential,  very  confi 
dential.  You  won't  give  it  away  ?  " 

"  Never  !  "     Hough  shook  his  head. 

"  On  your  honor  ?  " 

[  266  ] 


Two  Friends  Have  it  Out 

The  big  man  crossed  his  hands  over  his  heart  in  the 
manner  of  small  boys. 

Sidwell  was  satisfied.  "All  right,  then.  This  is  the 
last  time  you  and  I  will  ever  get  —  this  way  together." 

Hough  looked  as  solemn  as  though  at  a  funeral.  "  Why 
so  ?  "  he  protested.  "  Are  you  angry  with  me  yet  ?  " 

"  No,  it 's  not  that.     I  've  forgiven  you.1' 

"What  is  it,  then?1'  Hough  felt  that  he  must  know 
the  reason  of  his  lost  position,  and  if  in  his  power  re 
move  it. 

"  I  'm  going  to  quit  drinking  after  to-night,  for  one 
thing,"  explained  Sidwell.  "  It  is  n't  adequate.  But  even 
if  I  did  n't,  I  don't  expect  we  '11  ever  be  together  again 
after  a  few  days,  after  you  go  away." 

The  listener  looked  blank.  Even  with  his  muddled 
brains  he  had  an  intimation  that  there  was  more  in  the 
statement  than  there  seemed. 

"  I  don't  see  why,"  he  said  bewilderedly. 

Again  Sidwell  leaned  forward.  Again  his  face  grew 
passionate  and  magnetic. 

"  The  reason  why  is  this.  I  have  had  enough,  and 
more  than  enough,  of  this  life  I  Ve  been  living.  Unless 
I  can  find  an  interest,  an  extenuation,  I  would  rather  be 
dead,  a  hundred  times  over.  I  've  become  a  nightmare  to 
myself,  and  I  won't  stand  it.  In  a  few  days  you  '11  have 
departed,  and  before  you  return  I  '11  probably  have  gone 
too.  Nothing  but  an  intervention  of  Providence  can 
prevent  my  marrying  Florence  Baker  now.  Life  isn't  a 
story-book  or  we  who  live  it  undiscerning  clods.  She  knows 
I  am  going  to  ask  her  to  marry  me,  and  I  know  what  her 

[  267  1 


Ben  Blair 

answer  will  be.  We  11  be  away  on  our  wedding-trip  long 
before  you  and  Elise  return  in  the  FalL"  The  speaker's 
voice  was  sober.  Only  the  heightened  color  of  his  face 
betrayed  him. 

"  I  say  I  'm  through  with  this  sort  of  thing,"  he  re 
peated,  "  and  I  mean  it.  I  've  tried  everything  on  the 
face  of  the  earth  to  find  an  interest  —  but  one  —  and 
Florence  Baker  represents  that  one.  I  hope  against  hope 
that  1 11  find  what  I  'm  searching  for  there,  but  I  am 
skeptical.  I  have  been  disappointed  too  many  times  to 
expect  happiness  now.  This  is  my  last  trump,  old  man, 
and  I  'm  playing  it  deliberately  and  carefully.  If  it  fails, 
Florence  will  probably  return  ;  but  before  God,  I  never 
will !  I  have  thought  it  all  out.  I  will  leave  her  more 
money  than  she  can  ever  spend  —  enough  if  she  wishes  to 
buy  the  elect  of  the  elect.  She  is  young,  and  she  will 
soon  forget  —  if  it 's  necessary.  With  me,  my  actions 
have  largely  ceased  to  be  a  matter  of  ethics.  I  am  desper 
ate,  Hough,  and  a  desperate  man  takes  what  presents 
itself." 

But  Hough  was  in  no  condition  to  appreciate  the 
meaning  of  the  selfish  revelation  of  his  friend's  true 
character.  Since  he  married  his  lapses  had  been  infre 
quent,  and  already  his  surroundings  were  becoming  a  bit 
vague.  His  one  ambition  was  to  appear  what  he  was  not 
—  sober ;  and  he  straightened  himself  stiffly. 

u  I  see,"  he  said,  "  sorry  to  lose  you,  old  pal,  very 
sorry ;  but  what  must  be  must  be,  I  s'pose,"  and  he 
drew  himself  together  with  a  jerk. 

Sidwell  glanced  at  the  speaker  sarcastically,  almost  with 
[  268  ] 


Two  Friends  Have  it  Out 

a  shade  of  contempt.  "  I  know  you  're  sorry,  deucedly 
sorry,"  he  mocked.  "  So  sorry  that  you  'd  probably  like 
to  drown  your  excess  of  emotion  in  the  flowing  bowl." 
Again  the  ironic  glance  swept  the  other's  face.  "  An 
other  smile  would  be  good  for  you,  anyway.  You're 
entirely  too  serious.  Here  you  are  !  "  and  the  decanter 
once  more  did  service. 

Hough  picked  up  his  glass  and  nodded  with  gravity. 
66  Yes,  I  always  was  a  sad  devil."  By  successive  move 
ments  the  liquor  approached  his  lips.  "  Lots  of  troubles 
and  tribulations  all  my  —  " 

The  sentence  was  not  completed  ;  the  Cognac  remained 
untasted.  At  that  moment  there  was  a  knock  upon  the 
door. 


[269] 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE  BACK-FIRE 

WHEN  Ben  Blair  left  the  Baker  home  he  went 
back  to  his  room  at  the  hotel,  closed  and 
locked  the  door,  and,  throwing  off  coat  and 
hat,  stretched  himself  full-length  upon  the  floor,  gazing 
up  at  the  ceiling  but  seeing  nothing.  It  had  been  a  hard 
fight  for  self-control  there  on  the  prairie  the  day  Florence 
rejected  him,  but  it  was  as  nothing  to  the  tumult  that 
now  raged  in  his  brain.  Then,  despite  his  pain,  hope  had 
remained.  Now  hope  was  lost,  and  in  its  place  stood  a 
maddening  might-have-been.  Under  the  compulsion  of 
his  will,  the  white  flood  of  anger  had  passed,  but  it  only 
made  more  difficult  the  solution  of  the  problem  confront 
ing  him.  Under  the  influence  of  passion  the  situation 
would  have  been  a  mere  physical  proposition  ;  but  with  op 
portunity  to  think,  another's  wishes  and  another's  rights 
—  those  of  the  woman  he  loved  —  challenged  him  at  every 
turn. 

At  first  it  seemed  that  a  removal  of  his  physical  pres 
ence,  a  going  away  never  to  return,  was  adequate  solution 
of  the  difficulty;  but  he  soon  realized  that  it  was  not. 
Deeper  than  his  own  love  was  his  desire  for  the  happiness 
of  the  girl  he  had  known  from  childhood.  Had  he  been 

[270] 


The  Back-Fire 

certain  that  she  would  be  happy  with  the  man  who  had 
fascinated  her,  he  could  have  conquered  self,  could  have 
returned  to  his  prairies,  his  cattle,  his  work,  and  have  con 
cealed  his  hurt.  But  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  believe 
she  would  be  happy.  Without  volition  on  his  part  he 
had  become  an  actor  in  this  drama,  this  comedy,  this 
tragedy,  —  whatever  it  might  prove  to  be ;  and  he  felt 
that  it  would  be  an  act  of  cowardice  upon  his  part  to 
leave  before  the  play  was  ended.  He  was  not  in  the  least 
religious  in  the  sense  of  creed  and  dogma.  In  all  his  life 
he  had  scarcely  given  a  thought  to  religion.  His  knowl 
edge  of  the  Almighty  by  name  had  been  largely  confined 
to  that  of  a  word  to  conjure  with  in  mastering  an  ob 
streperous  bronco ;  but,  in  the  broad  sense  of  personal 
cleanliness  and  individual  duty,  he  was  religious  to  the  core. 
He  would  not  shirk  a  responsibility,  and  a  responsibility 
faced  him  now. 

Hour  after  hour  he  lay  prone  while  his  active  brain  sug 
gested  one  course  after  another,  all,  upon  consideration, 
proving  inadequate.  Gradually  out  of  the  chaos  one 
fundamental  fact  became  distinct  in  his  mind.  He  must 
know  more  of  this  man  Clarence  Sidwell  before  he  could 
leave  the  city,  and  this  decision  brought  him  to  his  feet. 
Under  the  circumstances,  a  strategist  might  have  em 
ployed  others  to  gather  surreptitiously  the  information 
desired ;  but  such  was  not  the  nature  of  Benjamin  Blair. 
One  thing  he  had  learned  in  dealing  with  his  fellows,  which 
was  that  the  most  effective  way  to  secure  the  thing  one 
wished  was  to  go  direct  to  the  man  who  had  it  to  give. 
In  this  case  Sidwell  was  the  man.  With  a  grim  smile 

[271] 


Ben  Blair 

Ben  remembered  the  invitation  and  the  address  he  had 
received  the  first  night  he  was  in  townc  He  would  avail 
himself  of  both. 

Night  had  fallen  long  ere  this ;  when  Ben  arose  the 
room  was  in  darkness,  save  for  the  reflected  light  which 
came  through  the  heavily  curtained  windows  from  the 
street  lamps.  He  turned  on  an  electric  bulb  and  made  a 
hasty  toilet.  In  doing  so  his  eye  fell  upon  the  two  big 
revolvers  within  the  drawer  of  the  dresser ;  and  the  same 
impulse  that  had  caused  him  to  bring  them  into  this  land 
of  civilization  made  him  thrust  them  into  his  hip  pockets. 
It  was  more  habit  than  anything  else,  just  as  a  man  with 
a  dog  friend  feels  vaguely  uncomfortable  unless  his  pet  is 
with  him.  Blair  had  the  vigorously  recurring  appetite  of 
a  healthy  animal,  and  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  he 
had  not  yet  dined.  Descending  to  the  street,  he  sought  a 
cafe  and  ate  a  hearty  meal. 

A  half-hour  later,  the  elevator  boy  of  the  Metropolitan 
Block,  where  Sidwell  had  his  quarters,  was  surprised,  on 
answering  the  indicator,  to  find  a  young  man  in  an  abnor 
mally  broad  hat  and  flannel  shirt  awaiting  him.  The 
youth  was  of  vivid  imagination,  and  knowing  that  a  Wild 
West  troupe  was  performing  in  town,  one  glance  at  Ben's 
hat,  his  suspicions  became  certainty. 

"Eleventh  floor,"  he  announced,  when  the  passenger 
had  told  his  destination ;  then  as  the  car  moved  upward 
he  gathered  courage  and  looked  the  rancher  fair  in  the  eye. 

"  Say,  Mister,"  he  ventured,  "  give  me  a  pass  to  the  show, 
will  you  ?  " 

For  an  instant  Ben  looked  blank ;  then  he  understood, 
[272] 


The  Back-Fire 

and  his  hand  sought  his  trousers'  pocket.  "  Sorry," 
he  explained,  "  but  I  don't  happen  to  have  any  with 
me.  Will  this  do  instead?"  and  he  produced  a  half- 
dollar. 

The  boy  brought  the  car  deftly  to  a  stop  within  a  half- 
inch  of  the  level  of  the  desired  floor.  "  Thank  you.  Mr. 
Sidwell  —  straight  ahead,  and  turn  to  the  left  down  the 
short  hall,"  he  said  obligingly. 

Blair  stepped  out,  saying,  "  Don't  fail  to  be  around  to 
morrow  when  I  do  my  stunt." 

With  open-mouthed  admiration  the  boy  watched  the 
frontiersman's  long  free  stride  —  a  movement  that  struck 
the  floor  with  the  springiness  of  a  cat,  very  different  from 
the  flat-footed  jar  of  pedestrians  on  paved  streets. 

"  I  won't ! "  he  called  after  him.  "  I  'd  rather  see 't  than 
a  dozen  ball-games !  I  '11  look  for  you,  Mister ! " 

At  the  interrupting  tap  upon  the  door,  Sidwell  voiced  a 
languid  "Come  in,"  and  merely  shifted  in  his  seat;  but 
his  big  companion,  with  the  hospitality  of  inebriation,  had 
returned  his  glass  unsteadily  to  the  table  and  arisen.  He 
had  taken  a  couple  of  uncertain  steps,  as  if  to  open  the 
door,  when,  in  answer  to  the  summons,  Ben  Blair  stepped 
inside.  Hough  halted  with  a  suddenness  which  all  but 
cost  him  his  equilibrium.  The  expansive  smile  upon  his 
face  vanished,  and  he  stared  as  though  the  bottomless  pit 
had  opened  at  his  feet.  For  a  fraction  of  a  minute  not 
one  of  the  three  men  spoke  or  stirred,  but  in  that  time  the 
steady  blue  eyes  of  the  countryman  took  in  the  details  of 
the  scene — the  luxurious  furnishings,  the  condition  of 
the  two  men  —  with  the  rapidity  and  minuteness  of  a 
18  [  273  ] 


Ben  Blair 

sensitized  plate.  Ironic  chance  had  chosen  an  unpropitious 
night  for  his  call.  Intoxication  surrounding  a  bar,  under  the 
stimulus  of  numbers,  and  preceding  or  following  some  ex 
citing  event,  he  could  understand,  could,  perhaps,  condone ; 
but  this  solitary  dissipation,  drunkenness  for  its  own  sake, 
was  something  new  to  him.  The  observing  eyes  fastened 
themselves  upon  the  host's  face. 

"  In  response  to  your  invitation,"  he  said  evenly,  "  I  've 
called." 

Sidwell  roused  himself.  His  face  flushed.  Despite  the 
liquor  in  his  brain,  he  felt  the  inauspicious  chance  of  the 
meeting. 

"Glad  you  did,"  he  said,  with  an  attempt  at  ease. 
"  Deucedly  glad.  I  don't  know  of  anyone  in  the  world 
I  'd  rather  see.  Just  speaking  of  you,  were  n't  we  ?  "  he 
said,  appealing  to  Hough.  "  By  the  way,  Mr.  —  er  — 
Blair,  shake  hands  with  Mr.  Hough,  Mr.  Winston  Hough. 
Mighty  good  fellow,  Hough,  but  a  bit  melancholy. 
Needs  cheering  up  a  bit  now  and  then.  Needed  it  badly 
to-night  —  almost  cried  for  it,  in  fact "  ;  and  the  speaker 
smiled  convivially. 

Hough  extended  his  hand  with  elaborate  formality. 
"Delighted  to  meet  you,"  he  managed  to  articulate. 

"Thank  you,"  returned^the  other  shortly. 

Sidwell  meanwhile  was  bringing  a  third  chair  and  glass. 
"Come  over,  gentlemen,"  he  invited,  "and  we'll  celebrate 
this,  the  proudest  moment  of  my  life.  You  drink,  of  course, 
Mr.  Blair?" 

Ben  did  not  stir.  "  Thank  you,  but  I  never  drink,"  he 
said. 

[  274  J 


The  Back-Fire 

"  What ! "  Sidwell  smiled  sceptically.  "  A  cattle-man, 
and  not  refresh  yourself  with  good  liquor  ?  You  refute  all 
the  precedents !  Come  over  and  take  something  ! " 

Ben  only  looked  at  him  steadily.  "I  repeat,  I  never 
drink,"  he  said  conclusively. 

Sidwell  sat  down,  and  Hough  followed  his  lead. 

"  All  right,  all  right !  Have  a  cigar,  then.  At  least 
you  smoke  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  assented  Blair,  "  I  smoke — sometimes." 

The  host  extended  the  box  hospitably.  "  Help  your 
self.  They  're  good  ones,  1 11  answer  for  that.  I  import 
them  myself." 

Ben  took  a  step  forward,  but  his  hands  were  still  in  his 
pockets.  "  Mr.  Sidwell,"  he  said,  "  we  may  as  well  save 
time  and  try  to  understand  each  other.  In  some  ways  I 
am  a  bit  like  an  Indian.  I  never  smoke  except  with  a 
friend,  and  I  am  not  sure  you  are  a  friend  of  mine.  To 
be  candid  with  you,  I  believe  you  are  not." 

Hough  stirred  in  his  chair,  but  Sidwell  remained  im 
passive  save  that  the  convivial  smile  vanished. 

A  quarter  of  a  minute  passed.  Once  the  host  took  up 
his  glass  as  if  to  drink,  but  put  it  down  untasted.  At 
last  he  indicated  the  vacant  chair. 

"  Won't  you  be  seated  ?  "  he  invited. 

Ben  sat  down. 

"You  say,"  continued  Sidwell,  "that  I  am  not  your 
friend.  The  statement  and  your  actions  carry  the  implica 
tion  that  of  necessity,  then,  we  must  be  enemies." 

The  speaker  was  sparring  for  time.  His  brain  was  not 
yet  normal,  but  it  was  clearing  rapidly.  He  saw  this  was 

[  275  ] 


Ben  Blair 

no  ordinary  man  he  had  to  deal  with,  no  ordinary  circum 
stance  ;  and  his  plan  of  campaign  was  unevolved. 

"  I  fail  to  see  why,"  he  continued. 

"Do  you?"  said  Ben,  quietly. 

Sidwell  lit  a  cigar  nonchalantly  and  smoked  for  a 
moment  in  silence. 

"Yes,"  he  reiterated.  "I  fail  to  see  why.  To  have 
made  you  an  enemy  implies  that  I  have  done  you  an 
injury,  and  I  recall  no  way  in  which  I  could  have  offended 
you." 

Ben  indicated  Hough  with  a  nod  of  his  head.  "Do 
you  wish  a  third  party  to  hear  what  we  have  to  say  ?  "  he 
inquired. 

Sidwell  looked  at  the  questioner  narrowly.  Deep  in 
his  heart  he  was  thankful  that  they  two  were  not  alone. 
He  did  not  like  the  look  in  the  countryman's  blue  eyes. 

"  Mr.  Hough,"  he  said  with  dignity,  "  is  a  friend  of  mine. 
If  either  of  you  must  leave  the  room,  most  assuredly  it 
will  not  be  he."  His  eyes  returned  to  those  of  the  visitor, 
held  there  with  an  effort.  "  By  the  bye,"  he  challenged, 
"  what  is  it  we  have  to  say,  anyway  ?  So  far  as  I  can  see, 
there 's  no  point  where  we  touch." 

Ben  returned  the  gaze  steadily.  "Absolutely  none?" 
he  asked. 

"  Absolutely  none."  Sidwell  spoke  with  an  air  of 
finality. 

The  countryman  leaned  a  bit  forward  and  rested  his 
elbow  upon  his  knee,  his  chin  upon  his  hand. 

"  Suppose  I  suggest  a  point  then :  Miss  Florence 
Baker." 

[  276  ] 


The  Back-Fire 

Sidwell  stiffened  with  exaggerated  dignity.  "I  never 
discuss  my  relations  with  a  lady,  even  with  a  friend. 
I  should  be  less  apt  to  do  so  in  speaking  with  a 
stranger." 

The  lids  of  Ben's  eyes  tightened  just  a  shade.  "Then 
I  '11  have  to  ask  you  to  make  an  exception  to  the  rule," 
he  said  slowly. 

"  In  that  case,"  Sidwell  responded  quickly,  "  1 11  refuse." 

For  a  moment  silence  fell.  Through  the  open  window 
came  the  ceaseless  drone  of  the  shifting  multitude  on  the 
street  below. 

"  Nevertheless,  I  insist,"  said  Ben,  calmly. 

SidwelPs  face  flushed,  although  he  was  quite  sober  now. 
"  And  I  must  still  refuse,"  he  said,  rising.  "  Moreover,  I 
must  request  that  you  leave  the  room.  You  forget  that 
you  are  in  my  home!" 

Ben  arose  calmly  and  walked  to  the  door  through  which 
he  had  entered.  The  key  was  in  the  lock,  and  turning  it 
he  put  it  in  his  pocket.  Still  without  haste  he  returned 
to  his  seat. 

"  That  this  is  your  home,  and  that  you  were  its  dictator 
before  I  came  and  will  be  after  I  leave,  I  do  not  contest," 
he  said ;  "  but  temporarily  the  place  has  changed  hands. 
I  do  not  think  you  were  quite  in  earnest  when  you  refused 
to  talk  with  me." 

For  answer,  Sidwell  jerked  a  cord  beside  the  table.  A 
bell  rang  vigorously  in  the  rear  of  the  apartments,  and 
the  big  negro  hurried  into  the  room. 

"  Alec,"  directed  the  master,  "  call  a  policeman  at  once  5 
At  once  —  do  you  hear  ?  " 


Ben  Blair 

**  Yes,  sah,"  and  the  servant  started  to  obey ;  but  the 
visitor's  eye  caught  his. 

"Alec,"  said  Ben,  steadily,  "  don't  do  that !  I  '11  be  the 
first  person  to  leave  this  room ! r' 

Instantly  Sidwell  was  on  his  feet,  his  face  convulsed 
with  passion.  "Curse  you!"  he  cried.  "You'll  pay 
for  this !  I  '11  teach  you  what  it  means  to  hold  up  a 
man  in  his  own  house ! "  He  turned  to  his  servant  with  a 
look  that  made  the  latter  recoil.  "  I  want  you  to  under 
stand  that  when  I  give  an  order  I  mean  it.  Go  ! " 

Blair  was  likewise  on  his  feet,  his  long  body  stretched 
to  its  full  height,  his  blue  eyes  fastened  upon  the  face  of 
the  panic-stricken  darky. 

"Alec,"  he  repeated  evenly,  "you  heard  what  I  said." 
Without  a  motion  save  of  his  head  he  indicated  a  seat 
in  the  corner  of  the  room.  "  Sit  down  !  " 

Sidwell  took  a  step  forward,  his  clenched  fists  raised 
menacingly. 

"Blair!  you  —  you  —  w 

"Yes." 

"You  —  " 

"Certainly,  I  —  " 

That  was  all.  It  was  not  a  lengthy  conversation,  or  a 
brilliant  one,  Jbut  it  was  adequate.  Face  to  face,  the  two 
men  stood  looking  in  each  other's  eyes,  each  taking  his 
opponent's  measure.  Hough  had  also  risen ;  he  expected 
bloodshed ;  but  not  once  did  Blair  stir  as  much  as  an  eye 
lid,  and  after  that  first  step  Sidwell  also  halted.  Beneath 
his  supercilious  caste  dominance  he  was  a  physical  coward, 
and  at  the  supreme  test  he  weakened.  The  flood  of  anger 


The  Back-Fire 

passed  as  swiftly  as  it  had  come,  leaving  him  impotent. 
He  stood  for  a  moment,  and  then  the  clenched  fist  dropped 
to  his  side. 

For  the  first  time,  Ben  Blair  moved.  Unemotionally  as 
before,  his  nod  indicated  the  chair  in  the  corner. 

"  Sit  over  there  as  long  as  I  stay,  Alec,"  he  directed ; 
and  the  negro  responded  with  the  alacrity  of  a  well- 
trained  dog. 

Ben  turned  to  the  big  man.  "And  you,  too,  Hough. 
My  business  has  nothing  to  do  with  you,  but  it  may  be 
well  to  have  a  witness.  Be  seated,  please/' 

Hough  obeyed  in  silence.  Sober  as  Sidwell  now,  his 
mind  grasped  the  situation,  and  in  spite  of  himself  he  felt 
his  sympathy  going  out  to  this  masterful  plainsman. 

Ben  Blair  now  turned  to  the  host,  and  as  he  did  so  his 
wiry  figure  underwent  a  transformation  that  lived  long  in 
the  spectators'  minds.  With  his  old  characteristic  motion, 
his  hands  went  into  his  trousers'  pockets,  his  chest  ex 
panded,  his  great  chin  lifted  until,  looking  down,  his  eyes 
were  half  closed. 

"  You,  Mr.  Sidwell,"  he  said,  "  can  stand  or  sit,  as  you 
please ;  but  one  thing  I  warn  you  not  to  do  —  don't  lie 
to  me.  We're  in  the  home  of  lies  just  now,  but  it  can't 
help  you.  Your  face  says  you  are  used  to  having  your 
own  way,  right  or  wrong.  Now  you'll  know  the  reverse. 
So  long  as  you  speak  the  truth,  I  won't  hurt  you,  no 
matter  what  you  say.  If  you  don't,  and  believe  in  God, 
you'd  best  make  your  peace  with  Him.  Do  you  doubt 
that?" 

One  glance  only  Sidwell  raised  to  the  towering  face, 
[  279  ] 


Ben  Blair 

and  his  eyes  fell.     Every  trace  of  fight,  of  effrontery,  had 
left  him,  and  he  dropped  weakly  into  his  chair. 

"  No,  I  don't  doubt  you,"  he  said. 

Ben  likewise  sat  down,  but  his  eyes  were  inexorable. 

"  First  of  all,  then,"  he  went  on,  "  you  will  admit  you 
were  mistaken  when  you  said  there  was  no  point  where  we 
touched?" 

"  Yes,  I  was  mistaken." 

"And  you  were  not  serious  when  you  refused  to  talk 
with  me?" 

A  spasm  of  repugnance  shot  over  the  host's  dark  face. 
He  heard  the  labored  breathing  of  the  negro  in  the 
corner,  and  felt  the  eyes  of  his  big  friend  upon  him. 

"  Yes,  I  was  not  serious,"  he  admitted  slowly. 

Ben's  long  legs  crossed,  his  hands  closed  on  the  chair- 
arms. 

"Very  well,  then,"  he  said.  "Tell  me  what  there  is 
between  you  and  Miss  Baker." 

Sidwell  lit  a  cigar,  though  the  hand  that  held  the 
match  trembled. 

"  Everything,  I  hope,"  he  said.  "  I  intend  marrying 
her." 

The  ranchman's  face  gave  no  sign  at  the  confession. 

"  You  have  asked  her,  have  you  ?  " 

"No.  Your  coming  prevented.  I  should  otherwise 
have  done  so  to-day." 

The  long  fingers  on  the  chair-arms  tightened  until  they 
grew  white. 

"  You  knew  why  I  came  to  town,  did  you  not  ?  " 

Sidwell  hesitated. 

[  280  ] 


The  Back-Fire 

**  I  had  an  intuition,"  he  admitted  reluctantly. 

Again  silence  fell,  and  the  subdued  roar  of  the  city  came 
to  their  ears. 

"You  have  not  called  at  the  Baker  home  to-day,11 
continued  Blair.  "Was  it  consideration  for  me  that 
kept  you  away  ? "  The  thin,  weather  -  browned  face 
grew,  if  possible,  more  clean-cut.  "  Remember  to  talk 
straight.11 

Sidwell  took  the  cigar  from  his  lips.  An  exultation  he 
could  not  quite  repress  flooded  him.  His  eyes  met  the 
other's  fair. 

"  No,11  he  said,  "  it  was  anything  but  consideration  for 
you.  I  knew  she  was  going  to  refuse  you.11 

In  the  corner  the  negro^  eyes  widened.  Even  Hough 
held  his  breath ;  but  not  a  muscle  of  Ben  Blair's  body 
stirred. 

"  You  say  you  knew,11  he  said  evenly.  "  How  did  you 
know  ?  " 

Sidwell  flicked  the  ash  from  his  cigar  steadily.  He  was 
regaining,  if  not  his  courage,  at  least  some  of  his  presence 
of  mind.  This  seeming  desperado  from  the  West  was  a 
being  upon  whom  reason  was  not  altogether  wasted. 

"  I  knew  because  her  mother  told  me  —  about  all  there 
was  to  tell,  I  guess  —  of  your  relations  before  Florence 
came  here.  I  knew  if  she  refused  you  then  she  would  be 
more  apt  to  do  so  now.11 

Still  the  figure  in  brown  was  that  of  a  statue. 

"  She  told  you  —  what  —  you  say  ?  w 

Sidwell  shifted  uncomfortably.     He  saw  breakers  ahead. 

"  The  —  main  reason  at  least,"  he  modified. 
[281  ] 


Ben  Blair 

"  Which  was  —  "  insistently. 

Sidwell  hesitated,  his  new-found  confidence  vanishing 
like  the  smoke  from  his  cigar.  But  there  was  no  escape. 

"  The  reason,  she  said,  was  because  you  were  —  minus 
a  pedigree." 

The  last  words  dropped  like  a  bomb  in  the  midst  of  the 
room.  Ben  Blair  swiftly  rose  from  his  seat.  The  negro's 
eyes  rolled  around  in  search  of  some  place  of  concealment. 
With  a  protesting  movement  Hough  was  on  his  feet. 

"  Gentlemen  !  "  he  implored.     "  Gentlemen  ! " 

But  the  intervention  was  unnecessary.  Ben  Blair  had 
settled  back  in  his  seat.  Once  more  his  hands  were  on 
the  chair-arms. 

"  Do  you,""  he  insinuated  gently,  "  consider  the  reason 
she  gave  an  adequate  one  ?  Do  you  consider  that  it 
had  any  rightful  place  in  the  discussion  ? " 

The  question,  seemingly  simple,  was  hard  to  answer. 
An  affirmative  trembled  on  the  city  man's  tongue.  He 
realized  it  was  his  opportunity  for  a  crushing  rejoinder. 
But  cold  blue  eyes  were  upon  him  and  the  meaning  of 
their  light  was  only  too  clear. 

"  I  can  understand  the  lady's  point  of  view,"  he  said 
evasively. 

Ben  Blair  leaned  forward,  the  great  muscles  of  his  jaw 
and  temples  tightening  beneath  the  skin. 

"  I  did  not  ask  for  the  lady's  point  of  view,"  he  admon 
ished,  "  I  asked  for  your  own." 

Again  Sidwell  felt  his  opportunity,  but  physical  coward 
ice  intervened.  No  power  on  earth  could  have  made  him 
say  "  yes  "  when  the  other  looked  at  him  like  that. 

[  282  ] 


The  Back-Fire 

66  No,"  he  lied,  "  I  do  not  see  that  it  should  make  the 
slightest  difference." 

"  On  your  honor,  you  swear  you  do  not  ?  " 

Sidwell  repeated  the  statement,  and  sealed  it  with  his 
honor. 

Ben  Blair  relaxed,  and  Hough  mopped  his  brow  with  a 
sigh  of  relief.  Even  Sidwell  felt  the  respite,  but  it  was 
short-lived. 

"  I  think,"  Ben  resumed,  "  that  what  you  Ve  just  said 
and  sworn  to  gives  the  lie  to  your  original  statement  that 
you  have  given  me  no  cause  for  enmity.  According  to 
your  own  showing  you  are  the  one  existing  obstacle  be 
tween  Florence  Baker  and  myself.  Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

Like  a  condemned  criminal,  Sidwell  felt  the  noose 
tightening. 

"  I  can't  deny  it,"  he  admitted. 

For  some  seconds  Ben  Blair  looked  at  him  with  an 
expression  almost  menacing.  When  he  again  spoke  the 
first  trace  of  passion  was  in  his  voice. 

"Such  being  the  case,  Clarence  Sidwell,"  he  went  on, 
"  caring  for  Florence  Baker  as  I  do,  and  knowing  you  as 
I  do,  why  in  God's  name  should  I  leave  you,  coward,  in 
possession  of  the  dearest  thing  to  me  in  the  world?"  For 
an  instant  the  voice  paused,  the  protruding  lower  jaw 
advanced  until  it  became  a  positive  disfigurement.  "  Tell 
me  why  I  should  sacrifice  my  own  happiness  for  yours.  I 
have  had  enough  of  this  word-play.  Speak  ! " 

In  every  human  life  there  is  at  some  time  a  supreme 
moment,  a  tragic  climax  of  events ;  and  Sidwell  realized 
that  for  him  this  moment  had  arrived.  Moreover,  it 

[  283  ] 


Ben  Blair 

had  found  him  helpless  and  unprepared.  Artificial  to 
the  bone,  he  was  fundamentally  disqualified  to  meet  such 
an  emergency;  for  artifice  or  subterfuge  would  not  serve 
him  now.  One  hasty  glance  into  that  relentless  face 
caused  him  to  turn  his  own  away.  Long  ago,  in  the 
West,  he  had  once  seen  a  rustler  hung  by  a  posse  of 
ranchers.  The  inexorable  expression  he  remembered  on 
the  surrounding  faces  was  mirrored  in  Ben  Blair's.  His 
brain  whirled;  he  could  not  think.  His  hand  passed 
aimlessly  over  his  face ;  he  started  to  speak,  but  his  voice 
failed  him. 

Ben  Blair  shifted  forward  in  his  seat.  The  long  sinewy 
fingers  gripped  the  chair  like  a  panther  ready  to  spring. 

"  I  am  listening,"  he  admonished. 

Sidwell  felt  the  air  of  the  room  grow  stifling.  A 
big  clock  was  ticking  on  the  wall,  and  it  seemed  to  him 
the  second-beats  were  minutes  apart.  His  downcast  eyes 
just  caught  the  shape  of  the  hands  opposite  him,  and  in 
fancy  he  felt  them  already  tightening  upon  his  throat. 
Like  a  drowning  man,  scenes  in  his  past  life  swarmed 
through  his  brain.  He  saw  his  mother,  his  sisters,  at  home 
in  the  old  family  mansion ;  his  friends  at  the  club,  chat 
ting,  laughing,  drinking,  smoking.  In  an  impersonal  sort 
of  way  he  wondered  how  they  would  feel,  what  they  would 
say,  when  they  heard.  On  the  vision  swept.  It  was 
Florence  Baker  he  saw  now  —  Florence,  all  in  fleecy  white ; 
the  girl  and  himself  were  on  the  broad  veranda  of  the 
Baker  home.  They  were  not  alone.  Another  figure  — 
yes,  this  same  menacing  figure  now  so  near — was  on  the 
walk  below  them,  his  broad-brimmed  hat  in  his  hand,  but 
•  [  284  ] 


The  Back-Fire 

leaving.  Florence  was  speaking;  a  smile  was  upon  her 
lips. 

Like  a  flash  of  lightning  the  images  of  fancy  passed, 
the  present  returned.  At  last  came  the  solution  once 
before  suggested,  —  the  back-fire  !  Sidwell  straightened, 
every  nerve  in  his  body  tense.  He  spoke — and  scarcely 
recognized  his  own  voice. 

"  There  is  a  reason,"  he  said,  "  a  very  adequate  reason  ; 
one  which  concerns  another  more  than  it  does  us."  With 
a  supreme  effort  of  will  the  man  met  the  blue  eyes  of  his 
opponent  squarely.  "  It  is  because  Florence  Baker  loves 
me  and  does  n't  love  you.  Because  she  would  never  for 
give  you,  never,  if  you  did  —  what  you  think  of  doing 
now." 

For  an  instant  the  listening  figure  remained  tense,  and 
it  seemed  to  Sidwell  that  his  own  pulse  ceased  beating ; 
then  the  long  sinewy  body  collapsed  as  under  a  physical 
blow. 

"  God  !  "  said  a  low  voice.     "  I  forgot !  " 

Not  one  of  the  three  spectators  stirred  or  spoke.  Like 
sheep,  they  awaited  the  lead  of  their  master. 

And  it  came  full  soon.  Stiffly,  clumsily,  still  in  silence, 
Ben  Blair  arose.  His  face  was  drawn  and  old,  his  step 
was  slow  and  halting.  Like  one  walking  in  his  sleep,  he 
made  his  way  to  the  door,  took  the  key  from  his  pocket, 
and  turned  the  lock.  Not  once  did  he  speak  or  glance 
back.  The  door  closed  softly,  and  he  was  gone. 

Behind  him  for  a  second  there  was  silence,  inactive  in 
credulity  as  at  a  miracle  performed ;  then,  in  a  blaze  of 
long  repressed  fury,  Sidwell  stood  beside  the  table.  Not 

[285  ] 


Ben  Blair 

pausing  for  a  glass,  he  raised  the  red  decanter  to  his  lips 
and  drank,  drank,  as  though  the  liquor  were  water. 

"  Curse  him  !  I  '11  marry  that  girl  now  if  for  no  other 
reason  than  to  get  even  with  him.  If  it's  the  last  act 
of  my  life,  I  swear  1 11  marry  her ! " 


[2861 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  UPPER  AND  THE  NETHER  MILLSTONES 

OUT  on  the  street  once  more,  Ben  Blair  looked 
about  him  as  one  awakening  from  a  dream.  From 
the  darkened  arch  of  a  convenient  doorway  he 
watched  the  endless  passing  throng  with  a  dull  sort  of 
wonder.  He  was  surprised  that  the  city  should  be  awake 
at  that  late  hour ;  and  stepping  out  into  the  light  he  held 
up  his  watch.  The  hands  indicated  a  few  minutes  past 
ten,  and  in  surprise  he  carried  the  timepiece  to  his  ear. 
Yes,  it  was  running,  and  must  be  correct.  He  had  seemed 
to  be  up  there  on  the  eleventh  floor  for  hours ;  but  as  a 
matter  of  fact  it  had  been  only  minutes.  Practically, 
the  whole  night  was  yet  before  him. 

Slowly,  in  a  listless  way,  he  started  to  walk  back  to  his 
hotel.  Instead  of  the  night  becoming  cooler  it  had  grown 
sultrier,  and  in  places  the  walk  was  fairly  packed  with 
human  beings.  More  than  once  he  had  to  turn  out  of  his 
way  to  pass  the  chattering  groups.  In  so  doing  he  was 
often  conscious  that  the  flow  of  small  talk  suddenly  ceased, 
and  that,  nudging  each  other,  the  chatterers  pointed  his 
way.  At  first  he  looked  about  to  see  what  had  attracted 
them,  but  he  very  soon  realized  that  he  himself  was  the 
object  of  attention.  Even  here,  cosmopolitan  as  were  the 

I  287  ] 


Ben  Blair 

surroundings,  he  was  a  marked  man,  was  recognized  as  a 
person  from  a  wholly  different  life  ;  and  his  feeling  of 
isolation  deepened.  He  moved  on  more  swiftly. 

The  sidewalk  in  front  of  his  hotel  was  fringed  with  a 
row  of  chairs,  in  which  sat  guests  in  various  stages  of 
negligee  costume.  Nearly  every  man  was  smoking,  and 
the  effect  in  the  semi -darkness  was  like  that  of  footlights 
turned  low.  Steps  and  lobby  were  likewise  crowded ;  but 
Ben  made  his  way  straight  to  his  room.  One  idea  now 
possessed  him.  His  business  was  finished,  and  he  wanted 
to  be  away.  Turning  on  a  light,  he  found  a  railroad 
guide  and  ran  down  the  columns  of  figures.  There  was  no 
late  night  train  going  West ;  he  must  wait  until  morning. 
Extinguishing  the  light,  he  drew  a  chair  to  the  open 
window  and  lit  a  cigar. 

With  physical  inactivity,  consciousness  of  his  surround 
ings  forced  themselves  on  his  attention.  Subdued,  pulsa 
ting,  penetrating,  the  murmur  of  the  great  hotel  came  to 
his  ears  ;  the  drone  of  indistinguishable  voices,  the  patter 
ing  footsteps  of  bell-boys  and  habitties,  the  purr  of  the 
elevator  as  it  moved  from  floor  to  floor,  the  click  of  the 
gate  as  it  stopped  at  his  own  level,  the  renewed  monotone 
as  it  passed  by. 

Continuous,  untiring,  the  sounds  suggested  the  unthink 
ing  vitality  of  a  steam-engine  or  of  a  dynamo  in  a  power 
house.  A  mechanic  by  nature,  as  a  school-boy  Ben  had 
often  induced  Scotty  to  take  him  to  the  electric  light  sta 
tion,  where  he  had  watched  the  great  machines  with  a  fas 
cination  bordering  on  awe,  until  fairly  dragged  away  by  the 
prosaic  Englishman.  This  feeling  of  his  childhood  recurred 

288 


The  Upper  and  the  Nether  Millstones 

to  him  now  with  irresistible  force.  The  throb  of  the 
motor  of  human  life  was  pulsating  in  his  ears ;  but  added 
to  it  was  something  more,  something  elusive,  intangible, 
but  all-powerful.  The  moment  he  had  arrived  within  the 
city  limits  he  had  felt  the  first  trace  of  its  presence.  As 
he  approached  the  centre  of  congestion  it  had  deepened, 
had  become  more  and  more  a  guiding  influence.  Since 
then,  by  day  or  by  night,  wherever  he  went,  augmenting 
or  diminishing,  it  was  constantly  with  him.  And  it  was 
not  with  him  alone.  Every  human  being  with  whom  he 
came  in  contact  was  likewise  consciously  or  unconsciously 
under  the  spell.  The  crowds  he  had  passed  on  the  streets 
were  unthinkingly  answering  its  guidance.  The  trolley 
cars  echoed  its  voice.  It  was  the  spirit  of  unrest  —  a 
thing  ubiquitous  and  all-penetrating  as  the  air  that  filled 
their  lungs — a  subtle  stimulant  that  they  took  in  with 
every  breath. 

Ben  Blair  arose  and  put  on  his  hat.  He  had  been  sit 
ting  only  a  few  minutes,  but  he  felt  that  he  could  not 
longer  bear  the  inactivity.  To  do  so  meant  to  think  ; 
and  thought  was  the  thing  that  to-night  he  was  attempt 
ing  to  avoid.  Moreover,  for  one  of  the  few  times  in 
his  life  he  could  remember  he  was  desperately  lonely.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  nowhere  within  a  thousand  miles  was 
another  of  his  own  kind.  Instinctively  he  craved  relief; 
arid  that  alleviation  could  come  in  but  one  way,  — 
through  physical  activity.  Again  he  sought  the  street. 

To  some  persons  a  great  relief  from  loneliness  is  found 
in  mingling  with  a  crowd,  even  though  it  be  of  strangers ; 
but  Ben  was  not  like  these.  His  desire  was  to  be  away 
19  [  289  ] 


Ben  Blair 

as  far  as  possible  from  the  maddening  drone.  Boarding 
a  street  car,  he  rode  out  into  the  residence  section,  clear 
to  the  end  of  the  loop;  then,  alighting,  he  started  to 
walk  back.  A  full  moon  had  arisen,  and  outside  the 
shadow -blots  of  trees  and  buildings  the  earth  was  all 
alight.  The  asphalt  of  the  pavements  and  the  cement  of 
the  walks  glistened  white  under  its  rays.  Loth  to  sacri 
fice  the  comparative  out-of-door  coolness  for  the  heat 
within,  practically  every  house  had  its  group  on  the 
doorsteps,  or  scattered  upon  the  narrow  lawns.  Accus 
tomed  to  magnificent  distances,  to  boundless  miles  of 
surrounding  country,  to  privacy  absolute,  Ben  watched 
this  scene  with  a  return  of  the  old  wonder,  —  the  old 
feeling  of  isolation,  of  separateness.  Side  by  side,  young 
men  and  women,  obviously  lovers,  kept  their  places,  in 
different  to  his  observation.  Other  couples,  still  more 
careless,  sat  with  circling  arms  and  faces  close  together, 
returning  his  gaze  impassively.  Nothing,  apparently,  in 
the  complex  gamut  of  human  nature  was  sacred  to  these 
folk.  To  the  solitary  spectator,  the  revelation  was  more 
depressing  than  even  the  down-town  unrest;  and  he 
hurried  on. 

Further  ahead  he  came  to  the  homes  of  the  wealthy, 
—  great  piles  of  stone  and  brick,  that  seemed  more  like 
hotels  than  residences.  The  forbidding  darkness  of  many 
of  the  houses  testified  that  their  owners  were  out  of  town, 
at  the  seaside  or  among  the  mountains ;  but  others  were 
brilliantly  lighted  from  basement  to  roof.  Before  one  a 
long  line  of  carriages  was  drawn  up.  Stiffly  liveried  foot 
men,  impassive  as  automatons,  waited  the  erratic  pleasure 

[  290  ] 


The  Upper  and  the  Nether  Millstones 

of  their  masters.  A  little  group  of  spectators  was  already 
gathered,  and  Ben  likewise  paused,  observing  the  spectacle 
curiously. 

A  social  event  of  some  sort  was  in  progress.  From 
some  concealed  place  came  the  music  of  a  string  orchestra. 
Every  window  of  the  great  pile  was  open  for  ventilation, 
and  Ben  could  hear  and  see  almost  as  plainly  as  the 
guests  themselves.  For  a  time,  deep,  insistent,  throb 
bing  in  measured  beat,  came  the  drone  of  the  'cello,  the 
wail  of  the  clarionet,  and,  faintly  audible  beneath,  the 
rustle  of  moving  feet.  Then  the  music  ceased ;  and  a 
few  seconds  later  a  throng  of  heated  dancers  swarmed 
through  the  open  doorway  to  the  surrounding  veranda, 
and  simultaneously  a  chatter  broke  forth.  Fans,  like 
gigantic  butterfly  wings,  vibrated  to  and  fro.  Skilful 
waiters,  in  black  and  white,  glanced  in  and  out.  Laugh 
ter,  thoughtless  and  care-free,  mingled  in  the  general 
scene. 

The  music  still,  Ben  Blair  was  about  to  move  on,  when 
suddenly  a  man  and  a  girl  in  the  shadow  of  a  window  on 
the  second  floor  caught  and  held  his  attention.  As  far  as 
he  could  see,  they  were  alone.  Evidently  one  or  the  other 
of  them  knew  the  house  intimately,  and  had  deliberately 
sought  the  place.  From  the  veranda  beneath,  the  flow  of 
talk  continued  uninterruptedly ;  but  they  gave  it  no  at 
tention.  The  spectator  could  distinctly  see  the  man  as  he 
leaned  back  in  the  light  and  spoke  earnestly.  At  times 
he  gesticulated  with  rapid  passionate  motions,  such  as  one 
unconsciously  uses  when  deeply  absorbed.  Now  and  again, 
with  the  bodily  motions  that  we  have  learned  to  connect 

[291  ] 


Ben  Blair 

with  the  French,  his  shoulders  were  shrugged  expressively. 
He  was  obviously  talking  against  time ;  for  his  every  mo 
tion  showed  intense  concentration.  No  spectator  could 
have  mistaken  the  nature  of  his  speech.  Passion  supreme, 
abandon  absolute,  were  here  personified.  As  he  spoke,  he 
gradually  leaned  farther  forward  toward  the  woman  who 
listened.  His  face  was  no  longer  in  the  light.  Suddenly, 
at  first  low,  as  though  coming  from  a  distance,  increasing 
gradually  until  it  throbbed  into  the  steady  beat  of  a  waltz, 
the  music  recommenced.  It  was  the  signal  for  action  and 
for  throwing  off  restraint.  The  man  leaned  forward ;  his 
arm  stretched  out  and  closed  about  the  figure  of  the 
woman.  His  face  pressed  forward  to  meet  hers,  again  and 
again. 

Not  Ben  alone,  but  a  half-dozen  other  spectators  had 
watched  the  scene.  An  overdressed  girl  among  the  num 
ber  tittered  at  the  sight. 

But  Ben  scarcely  noticed.  With  the  strength  of  in 
sulted  womanhood,  the  girl  had  broken  free,  and  now 
stood  up  full  in  the  light.  One  look  she  gave  to  the 
man,  a  look  which  should  have  withered  him  with  its 
scorn ;  then,  gathering  her  skirts,  she  almost  ran  from 
the  room. 

Only  a  few  seconds  had  the  girl's  face  been  clear  of  the 
shadow ;  yet  it  had  been  long  enough  to  permit  recogni 
tion,  and  instantly  liquid  fire  flowed  in  the  veins  of  Benja 
min  Blair.  His  breath  came  quick  and  short  as  that  of  a 
runner  passing  under  the  wire,  and  his  great  jaw  set.  The 
woman  he  had  seen  was  Florence  Baker. 

With  one  motion  he  was  upon  the  terrace  leading 
[  292  ] 


The  Upper  and  the  Nether  Millstones 

toward  the  house.  Another  second,  and  he  would  have 
been  well  upon  his  way,  when  a  hand  grasped  him  from 
behind  and  drew  him  back.  With  a  half-articulated  im 
precation  Ben  turned  —  and  stood  fronting  Scotty  Baker. 
The  Englishman's  face  was  very  white.  Behind  the  com 
pound  lenses  his  eyes  glowed  in  a  way  Ben  had  not  thought 
possible ;  but  his  voice  was  steady  when  he  spoke. 

"  I  saw  too,  Ben,"  he  said,  "  and  I  understand.  I  know 
what  you  want  to  do,  and  God  knows  I  want  to  do  the 
same  thing  myself;  but  it  would  do  no  good;  it  would 
only  make  the  matter  worse."  He  looked  at  the  younger 
man  fixedly,  almost  imploringly.  His  voice  sank.  "  As 
you  care  for  Florence,  Ben,  go  away.  Don't  make  a  scene 
that  will  do  only  harm.  Leave  her  with  me.  I  came  to 
take  her  home,  and  1 11  do  so  at  once."  The  speaker 
paused,  and  his  hand  reached  out  and  grasped  the  other's 
with  a  grip  unmistakable.  "  I  appreciate  your  motive,  my 
boy,  and  I  honor  it.  I  know  how  you  feel ;  and  whatever 
I  may  have  been  in  the  past,  from  this  time  on  I  am  your 
friend.  I  am  your  friend  now,  when  I  ask  you  to  go,"  and 
he  fairly  forced  his  companion  away. 

Once  outside  the  crowd,  Ben  halted.  He  gave  the 
Englishman  one  long  look ;  his  lips  opened  as  if  to  speak  ; 
then,  without  a  word,  he  moved  away. 

There  was  no  listlessness  about  him  now.  He  was 
throbbing  with  repressed  energy,  like  a  great  engine  with 
steam  up.  His  feet  tapped  with  the  regularity  of  clock- 
ticks  over  mile  after  mile  of  the  city  walks.  He  longed 
for  physical  weariness,  for  sleep ;  but  the  day,  with  its 
manifold  mental  exaltations  and  depressions,  prevented. 

[  293  ] 


Ben  Blair 

It  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  never  sleep  again, 
could  never  again  be  weary.  He  could  only  walk  on 
and  on. 

Down  town  again,  he  found  the  crowds  smaller  and  the 
border  of  chairs  in  front  of  his  hotel  largely  empty.  A 
few  cigars  still  burned  in  the  half-light,  but  they  were  the 
last  flicker  of  a  conflagration  now  all  but  extinguished. 
The  restless  throb  of  the  human  dynamo  was  lower  and 
more  subdued.  The  street  cars  were  practically  empty. 
Instead  of  a  constant  stream  of  vehicles,  an  occasional  cab 
clattered  past.  The  city  was  preparing  for  its  brief  hours 
of  fitful  rest. 

Straight  on  Ben  walked,  between  the  towering  office 
buildings,  beside  the  now  darkened  department-store  hives, 
past  the  giant  wholesale  establishments  and  warehouses ; 
until,  quite  unintentionally  on  his  part,  and  almost  before  he 
realized  it,  he  found  himself  in  another  world,  another  city, 
as  distinct  as  though  it  were  no  part  of  the  cosmopolitan 
whole.  Again  he  came  upon  throbbing  life  ;  but  of  quite 
another  type.  Once  more  he  met  people  in  abundance, 
noisy,  chattering  human  beings ;  but  more  frequently  than 
his  own  he  now  heard  foreign  tongues  that  he  did  not 
understand,  and  did  not  even  recognize.  No  longer  were 
the  pedestrians  well  dressed  or  apparently  prosperous.  In 
stead,  poverty  and  squalor  and  filth  were  rampant.  More 
loth  even  than  the  well-to-do  of  the  suburbs  to  go  within 
doors,  the  swarming  mass  of  humanity  covered  the  steps  of 
the  houses,  and  overflowed  upon  the  sidewalk,  even  upon 
the  street  itself.  There  were  men,  women,  children  ;  the 
lame,  the  halt,  the  blind.  The  elders  stared  at  the  visitor, 

[  294  ] 


The  Upper  and  the  Nether  Millstones 

while  the  youngsters,  secure  in  numbers,  guyed  him  to 
their  hearts'  content. 

It  was  all  as  foreign  to  any  previous  experience  of  this 
countryman  as  though  he  had  come  from  a  different  planet. 
He  had  read  of  the  city  slums  as  of  Stanley's  Central 
African  negro  tribes  with  unpronounceable  names  ;  and 
he  had  thought  of  them  in  much  the  same  way.  To  him 
they  had  been  something  known  to  exist,  but  with  which 
it  was  but  remotely  probable  he  would  ever  come  in  con 
tact.  Now,  without  preparation  or  premeditation,  thrown 
face  to  face  with  the  reality,  it  brought  upon  him  a  sicken 
ing  feeling,  a  sort  of  mental  nausea.  Ben  was  not  a  phi 
lanthropist  or  a  social  reformer ;  the  inspiring  thought  of 
the  inexhaustible  field  for  usefulness  therein  presented  had 
never  occurred  to  him.  He  wished  chiefly  to  get  away 
from  the  stench  and  ugliness ;  and,  turning  down  a  cross 
street,  he  started  to  return. 

The  locality  he  now  entered  was  more  modern  and 
better  lighted  than  the  one  he  left  behind.  The  decorated 
building  fronts,  with  their  dazzling  electric  signs,  partook 
of  the  characteristics  of  the  inhabitants,  who  seemed  over 
dressed  and  vulgarly  ostentatious.  The  gaudily  trapped 
saloons,  cafes ^  and  music  halls,  spoke  a  similar  message. 
This  was  the  recreation  spot  of  the  people  of  the  quarter ; 
their  land  of  lethe.  So  near  were  the  saloons  and  drinking 
gardens  that  from  their  open  doorways  there  came  a 
pungent  odor  of  beer.  Every  place  had  instrumental 
music  of  some  kind.  Mandolins  and  guitars,  in  the 
hands  of  gentlemen  of  color,  were  the  favorites.  Pianos 
of  execrable  tone,  played  by  youths  with  defective  com- 

[295] 


Ben  Blair 

plexions,  or  by  machinery,  were  a  close  second.  Before 
one  place,  a  crowd  blocked  the  sidewalk ;  and  there  Ben 
stopped.  A  vaudeville  performance  was  going  on  within 
—  an  invisible  dialect  comedian  doing  a  German  stunt  to 
the  accompaniment  of  wooden  clogs  and  disarranged  verbs. 
A  barker  in  front,  coatless,  his  collar  loosened,  a  black 
string  tie  dangling  over  an  unclean  shirt  front,  was  tem 
porarily  taking  a  much-needed  rest.  An  electric  sign 
overhead  dyed  his  cheeks  with  shifting  colors  —  first  red, 
then  green,  then  white.  Despite  its  veneer  of  brazen 
effrontery,  the  face,  with  its  great  mouth  and  two  days' 
growth  of  beard,  was  haggard  and  weary  looking.  Ben 
mentally  pictured,  with  a  feeling  of  compassion,  other  hu 
man  beings  doing  their  idiotic  "  stunts  "  inside,  sweltering 
in  the  foul  air  ;  and  he  wondered  how,  if  an  atom  of  self- 
respect  remained  in  their  make-up,  they  could  fail  to  de 
spise  themselves. 

But  the  comedian  had  subsided  in  a  roar  of  applause, 
and  again  the  barker's  hands  were  gesticulating  wildly. 

"  Now  's  your  time,  ladies  and  gentlemen,"  he  harangued. 
"  It 's  continuous,  you  know,  and  Madame  —  " 

But  Ben  did  not  wait  for  more.  Elbow  first,  he  pushed 
into  the  crowd,  and  as  it  instantly  closed  about  him  the 
odor  of  unclean  bodies  made  him  fairly  hold  his  breath. 

Straight  ahead,  looking  neither  to  right  nor  to  left,  went 
the  countryman  ;  he  turned  the  coiner  of  the  block,  a 
corner  without  a  light.  Suddenly,  with  an  instinctive 
tightening  of  his  breath,  he  drew  back.  He  had  nearly 
stepped  upon  a  man,  dead  drunk,  stretched  half  in  a 
darkened  doorway,  half  on  the  walk.  The  wretch's  head 

[296] 


The  Upper  and  the  Nether  Millstones 

was  bent  back  over  one  of  the  iron  steps  until  it  seemed 
as  if  he  must  choke,  and  he  was  snoring  heavily. 

Not  a  policeman  was  in  sight,  and  Ben,  in  great  physical 
disgust,  carried  the  helpless  hulk  to  one  side,  out  of  the 
way  of  pedestrians,  took  off  the  tattered  coat  and  rolled 
it  into  a  pillow  for  the  head,  and  then  moved  on  with 
the  sound  of  the  stertorous  drunken  breathing  still  in 
his  ears. 

Still  other  experiences  were  in  store  for  him.  He  made 
a  half  block  without  further  interruption  ;  then  he  sud 
denly  heard  at  his  back  a  frightened  scream,  and  a  young 
woman  came  running  toward  him,  followed  at  a  distance 
by  a  roughly  dressed  man,  the  latter  apparently  the  worse 
for  liquor.  Blair  stopped,  and  the  girl  coming  up,  caught 
him  by  the  arm  imploringly. 

"  Help  me,  Mister,  please  ! "  she  pleaded  breathlessly. 
"  He  —  Tom,  back  there  —  insulted  me.  I  —  "  A  burst 
of  hysterical  tears  interrupted  the  confession. 

Meanwhile,  seeing  the  turn  events  had  taken,  the  pur 
suer  had  likewise  stopped,  and  now  he  hesitated. 

"  All  right,'"1  replied  Ben.  "  Go  ahead  !  1 11  see  that 
the  fellow  doesn't  trouble  you  again."  And  he  started 
back. 

But  the  girl's  hand  was  again  upon  his  arm.  "  No,"  she 
protested,  "  not  that  way,  please.  He 's  my  steady,  Tom 
is,  only  to-night  he 's  drank  too  much,  and  —  and  —  he 
does  n't  realize  what  he 's  doing."  The  grip  on  his  arm 
tightened  as  she  looked  imploringly  into  his  face.  "  Take 
me  home,  please ! "  A  catch  was  in  her  voice.  "  I  'm 
afraid." 

[  297  1 


Ben  Blair 

Ben  hesitated.  Even  in  the  half-light  the  petitioner's 
face  hinted  brazenly  of  cosmetics. 

"  Where  do  you  live  ?  "  he  asked  shortly. 

"  Only  a  little  way,  less  than  a  block,  and  it 's  the  direc 
tion  you  Ye  going.  Please  take  me  !  " 

"  Very  well,""  said  Blair,  and  they  moved  on,  the  girl  still 
clinging  to  him  and  sobbing  at  intervals.  Before  a  dark 
three-story  and  basement  building,  with  a  decidedly  sin 
ister  aspect,  she  stopped  and  indicated  a  stairway. 

"  This  is  the  place." 

"  All  right,"  responded  Ben.  "  I  guess  you  're  safe  now. 
Good-night ! " 

But  she  clung  to  him  the  tighter.  "  Come  up  with 
me,"  she  insisted.  "  We  Ye  only  on  the  second  floor,  and 
I  have  n't  thanked  you  yet.  Really,  I  'm  so  grateful ! 
You  don't  know  what  it  means  to  be  a  girl,  and  —  and  —  " 
Her  feelings  got  the  better  of  her  again,  and  she  paused 
to  wipe  her  eyes  on  her  sleeve.  "  My  mother  will  be  so 
thankful  too.  She'd  never  forgive  me  if  I  didn't  bring 
you  up.  Please  come  ! "  and  she  led  the  way  up  the  dark 
ened  stair. 

Again  Ben  hesitated.  He  did  not  in  the  least  like  the 
situation  in  which  circumstances  had  placed  him.  The 
prospect  of  the  girl's  mother,  like  herself,  scattering  grate 
ful  tears  upon  him  was  not  alluring ;  but  it  seemed  the 
part  of  a  cad  to  refuse,  and  at  last  he  followed. 

His  guide  led  him  up  a  short  flight  of  stairs  and  turned 
to  the  right,  down  a  dimly  lighted  hall.  The  ground- 
floor  of  the  building  was  used  for  store  purposes.  This 
second  floor  was  evidently  a  series  of  apartments.  Lights 

[  298  ] 


The  Upper  and  the  Nether  Millstones 

from  within  the  rooms  crept  over  the  curtained  transoms. 
Voices  sounded  ;  glasses  clinked.  A  piano  banged  out 
ragtime  like  mad. 

At  the  fourth  door  the  girl  stopped.  "  Thank  you  so 
much  for  coming,"  she  said.  "  Walk  right  in,"  and  throw 
ing  open  the  door  she  fairly  shoved  the  visitor  inside. 

From  out  the  semi-darkness,  Ben  now  found  himself  in 
a  well-lighted  room,  and  the  change  made  him  blink  about 
him.  Instead  of  the  motherly  old  lady  in  a  frilled  cap, 
whom  he  had  expected  to  see,  he  found  himself  in  the  com 
pany  of  a  half-dozen  coatless  young  men  and  under-dressed 
women,  lounging  in  questionable  attitudes  on  chairs  and 
sofas.  At  his  advent  they  all  looked  up.  A  sallow  youth 
who  had  been  operating  the  piano  turned  in  his  seat 
and  the  music  stopped.  Not  yet  realizing  the  trick  that 
had  been  played  upon  him,  Ben  turned  to  look  for  his 
guide;  but  she  was  nowhere  in  sight,  and  the  door  was 
closed.  His  eyes  shifted  back  and  met  a  circle  of  amused 
faces,  while  a  burst  of  mocking  laughter  broke  upon  his 
ears. 

Then  for  the  first  time  he  understood,  and  his  face 
went  white  with  anger.  Without  a  word  he  started  to 
leave  the  room.  But  one  of  the  women  was  already  at 
his  side,  her  detaining  hand  upon  his  sleeve.  "No,  no, 
honey ! "  she  said,  insinuatingly.  "  We  Ye  all  good 
fellows  !  Stay  awhile  !  " 

Ben  shook  her  off  roughly.  Her  very  touch  was  con 
taminating.  But  one  of  the  men  had  had  time  to  get 
between  him  and  the  doo'r ;  a  sarcastic  smile  was  upon  his 
face  as  he  blocked  the  way. 

[  299  ] 


Ben  Blair 

"  I  guess  it 's  on  you,  old  man!"  he  bantered.  "  About 
a  half-dozen  quarts  will  do  for  a  starter ! "  He  nodded 
to  a  pudgy  old  woman  who  was  watching  interestedly 
from  the  background.  "  You  heard  the  gent's  order, 
mother  !  Beer,  and  in  a  hurry  !  He  looks  dry  and  hot."" 

Again  a  gale  of  laughter  broke  forth  ;  but  Ben  took  no 
notice.  He  made  one  step  forward,  until  he  was  within 
arm's  reach  of  the  humorist. 

"  Step  out  of  my  way,  please,"  he  said  evenly. 

Had  the  man  been  alone  he  would  have  complied,  and 
quickly.  No  human  being  with  eyes  and  intelligence 
could  have  misread  the  warning  on  Ben  Blair's  counten 
ance.  He  started  to  move,  when  the  girl  who  had  first 
come  forward  turned  the  tide. 

"  Aw,  Charley  !  "  she  goaded.  "  Is  that  all  the  nerve 
you  've  got ! "  and  she  laughed  ironically. 

Instantly  the  man's  face  reddened,  and  he  fell  back  into 
his  first  position. 

"  Sorry  I  can't  oblige  you,  pal,"  he  said,  "  but  you  see 
it 's  agin  de  house.  Us  blokes  has  got  — " 

The  sentence  was  never  completed.  Ben's  fist  shot  out 
and  caught  the  speaker  fair  on  the  point  of  his  jaw,  and 
he  collapsed  in  his  tracks.  For  a  second  no  one  in  the 
room  stirred;  then  before  Ben  could  open  the  door,  the 
other  men  were  upon  him.  The  women  fled  screaming 
to  the  farthest  corner  of  the  room,  where  they  huddled 
together  like  sheep.  Returning  with  the  tray,  the  old 
woman  realized  an  only  too  familiar  condition. 

"  Gentlemen  !  "  she  pleaded.     "  Gentlemen  !  " 

But  no  one  paid  the  slightest  attention  to  her.  Forced 
[  300  ] 


The  Upper  and  the  Nether  Millstones 

by  sheer  odds  of  mass  toward  a  corner,  Ben's  long  arms 
were  working  like  flails.  Another  man  fell,  and  was  up 
again.  The  first  one  also  was  upon  his  feet  now,  his 
face  white,  and  a  tiny  stream  of  blood  trickling  from  his 
bruised  jaw.  A  heavy  beer-bottle  flung  by  one  of  the 
women  crashed  on  the  wall  over  the  countryman's  head, 
the  contents  spattering  over  him  like  rain.  One  of  the 
men  had  seized  a  chair  and  swung  it  high  to  strike,  with 
murder  in  his  eye.  Attracted  by  the  confusion,  the  other 
occupants  of  the  floor  had  rushed  into  the  hall.  The  door 
was  flung  open  and  instantly  blocked  with  a  mass  of 
sinister  menacing  faces. 

Until  then,  Ben  had  been  silent  as  death,  silent  as  one 
who  realizes  that  he  is  fighting  for  life  against  overwhelm 
ing  odds.  Now  of  a  sudden  he  leaped  backward  like  a 
great  cat,  clear  of  all  the  others.  From  his  throat  there 
issued  a  sound,  the  like  of  which  not  one  of  those  who 
listened  had  ever  heard  before,  and  which  fairly  lifted 
their  hair  —  the  Indian  war-whoop  that  the  man  had 
learned  as  a  boy.  With  the  old  instinctive  motion,  com 
parable  in  swiftness  to  nothing  save  the  passage  of  light, 
the  cowboy's  hands  went  to  his  hips,  and  as  swiftly  re 
turned  with  the  muzzles  of  two  great  revolvers  protruding 
like  elongated  index  fingers.  With  equal  swiftness,  his 
face  had  undergone  a  transformation.  His  jaw  was  set 
and  his  blue  eyes  flashed  like  live  coals. 

"  Stand  back,  little  folks ! "  he  ordered,  while  the  twin 
weapons  revolved  in  circles  of  reflected  flame  about  his 
trigger  fingers.  "  You  seem  to  want  a  show,  and  you 
shall  have  it ! "  The  whirling  circles  vanished.  A  deep 

[  301  ] 


Ben  Blair 

report  fell  upon  the  silence,  and  a  gaudy  vase  on  the 
mantle  flew  into  a  thousand  pieces.  "Stand  back,  people, 
or  you  might  get  hurt ! " 

Awed  into  dumb  helplessness,  the  spectators  stared 
with  widening  eyes;  but  the  spectacle  had  only  begun. 
Like  the  reports  of  giant  fire-crackers,  only  seconds  apart, 
the  great  revolvers  spoke.  A  nudely  suggestive  cast  in 
the  corner  followed  the  vase.  A  quaintly  carved  clock 
paused  in  its  measure  of  time,  its  hands  chronicling  the 
minute  of  interruption.  A  decanter  of  whiskey  burst  spat 
tering  over  a  table.  Two  bacchanalian  pictures  on  the 
wall  suddenly  had  yawning  wounds  in  their  centre.  The 
portrait  of  a  queen  of  the  footlights  leaped  into  the  air. 
One  of  the  beer-bottles,  which  the  madame  had  placed 
on  a  convenient  table,  popped  as  though  it  were  cham 
pagne.  Fragments  of  glass  and  porcelain  fell  about  like 
hail.  The  place  was  lighted  by  a  tuft  of  three  big  incan 
descent  globes  ;  and,  last  of  all,  one  by  one,  they  crashed 
into  atoms,  and  the  room  was  in  total  darkness.  Then 
silence  fell,  startling  in  contrast  to  the  late  confusion, 
while  the  pungent  odor  of  burnt  gunpowder  intruded 
upon  the  nostrils. 

For  a  moment  there  was  inaction ;  then  the  assembly 
brok,e  into  motion.  No  thought  was  there  now  of  re 
taliation  or  revenge;  only,  as  at  a  sudden  conflagration 
or  a  wreck,  of  individual  safety  and  escape.  The  hallway 
was  cleared  as  if  by  magic.  Within  the  room  the  men  and 
women  jostled  each  other  in  the  darkness,  or  jammed  im 
precating  in  the  narrow  doorway.  In  a  few  seconds  Ben 
was  alone.  Calmly  he  thrust  the  empty  revolvers  back 

[  302  ] 


The  Upper  and  the  Nether  Millstones 

into  his  pockets  and  followed  leisurely  into  the  hall. 
There  the  dim  light  revealed  an  empty  space  ;  but  here 
and  there  a  lock  turned  gratingly,  and  from  more  than 
one  room  as  he  passed  came  the  sound  of  furniture  being 
hastily  drawn  forward  as  a  barricade. 

No  human  being  ever  knew  what  occurred  behind  the 
locked  door  of  Ben  Blair's  room  at  the  hotel  that  night. 
Those  hours  were  buried  as  deep  as  what  took  place  in 
his  mind  during  the  months  intervening  between  the 
coming  of  Florence  Baker  to  the  city  and  his  own  deci 
sion  to  follow  her.  By  nature  a  solitary,  he  fought  his 
battles  alone  and  in  silence.  That  he  never  once  touched 
his  bed,  the  hotel  maids  could  have  testified  the  next 
morning.  As  to  the  decision  that  followed  those  sleep 
less  hours,  his  own  action  gave  a  clue.  He  had  left  a  call 
for  an  early  train  West,  and  at  daylight  a  tap  sounded  on 
his  door,  while  a  voice  announced  the  time. 

tt  Yes,"  answered  the  guest ;  but  he  did  not  stir. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  tap  was  repeated  more  insistently. 
"  You  Ve  only  time  to  make  your  train  if  you  hurry," 
warned  the  voice. 

For  a  moment  Blair  did  not  answer.  Then  he  said: 
"  I  have  decided  not  to  go." 


[  303  j 


CHAPTER   XXV 

OF  WHAT  AVAIL? 

IT  was  late  next  morning,  almost  noon  in  fact,  when 
Florence  Baker  awoke  ;  and  even  then  she  did  not  at 
once  rise.  A  physical  listlessness,  very  unusual  to 
her,  lay  upon  her  like  a  weight.  A  year  ago,  by  this  time 
of  day,  she  would  have  been  ravenously  hungry ;  but  now 
she  had  a  feeling  that  she  could  not  have  taken  a  mouthful 
of  food  had  her  life  depended  on  it.  The  room,  although 
it  faced  the  west  and  was  well  ventilated,  seemed  hot  and 
depressing.  A  breeze  stirred  the  lace  curtains  at  the 
window,  but  it  was  heated  by  the  blocks  of  city  pavements 
over  which  it  had  come.  The  girl  involuntarily  compared 
this  awakening  with  that  of  a  former  life  in  what  now 
seemed  to  her  the  very  long  ago.  She  remembered  the 
light  morning  wind  of  the  prairies,  which,  always  fresh 
with  the  coolness  of  dew  and  of  growing  things,  had  drifted 
in  at  the  tiny  windows  of  the  Baker  ranch-house.  She 
recalled  the  sweet  scent  of  the  buffalo  grass  with  a  vague 
sense  of  depression  and  irrevocable  loss. 

She  turned  restlessly  beneath  the  covers,  and  in  doing 
so  her  face  came  in  contact  with  the  moistened  surface  of 
her  pillow.  Propping  herself  up  on  her  elbow,  she  looked 
curiously  at  the  tell-tale  bit  of  linen.  Obviously,  she  had 

[304,] 


Of  What  Avail? 

been  crying  in  her  sleep ;  and  for  this  there  must  have 
been  a  reason.  Until  that  moment  she  had  not  thought 
of  the  previous  night ;  but  now  the  sudden  recollection 
overwhelmed  her.  She  was  only  a  girl- woman  —  a  child 
of  nature,  incapable  of  repression.  Two  great  tears  gath 
ered  in  her  soft  brown  eyes ;  with  instinctive  desire  of 
concealment  the  fluffy  head  dropped  to  the  pillow,  and  the 
sobs  broke  out  afresh. 

Minutes  passed ;  then  her  mother's  hesitating  steps 
approached  the  door. 

"  Florence,"  called  a  voice.     "  Florence,  are  you  well  ?  " 

The  dishevelled  brown  head  lifted,  but  the  girl  made  no 
motion  to  let  her  mother  in. 

"  Yes  —  I  am  well,"  she  echoed. 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Baker  hesitated,  but  she  was  too 
much  in  awe  of  her  daughter  to  enter  uninvited. 

"  I  have  a  note  for  you,"  she  announced.  "  Mr.  Sidwell's 
man  Alec  just  brought  it.  He  says  there 's  to  be  an 
answer." 

But  still  the  girl  did  not  move.  It  was  an  unpropitious 
time  to  mention  the  club-man's  name.  The  fascination 
of  such  as  he  fades  at  early  morning  ;  it  demands  semi- 
darkness  or  artificial  light.  Just  now  the  thought  of  him 
was  distinctly  depressing,  like  the  sultry  breeze  that 
wandered  in  at  the  window. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Florence,  at  last.  "  Leave  it,  please, 
and  tell  Alec  to  wait.  1 11  be  down  directly." 

In  response,  an  envelope  with  a  monogram  in  the  corner 
was  slipped  in  under  the  door,  and  the  bearer's  footsteps 
tapped  back  into  silence. 

20  [  305  ] 


Ben  Blair 

Slowly  the  girl  crawled  from  her  bed,  but  she  did  not  at 
once  take  up  the  note.  Instead,  she  walked  over  to  the 
dresser,  and,  leaning  on  its  polished  top,  gazed  into  the 
mirror  at  the  reflection  of  her  tear-stained  face,  with  its 
mass  of  disarranged  hair.  It  was  not  a  happy  face  that 
she  saw;  and  just  at  this  moment  it  looked  much  older 
than  it  really  was.  The  great  brown  eyes  inspected  it 
critically  and  relentlessly. 

"  Florence  Baker,"  she  said  to  the  face  in  the  mirror, 
"  you  are  getting  to  be  old  and  haggard.""  A  prophetic 
glimpse  of  the  future  came  to  her  suddenly.  "  A  few  years 
more,  and  you  will  not  be  even  —  good-looking." 

She  stood  a  moment  longer,  then,  walking  over  to  the 
door,  she  picked  up  the  envelope  and  tore  it  open. 

"  Miss  Baker,1'  ran  the  note,  "  there  is  to  be  an  informal 
little  gathering  —  music,  dancing,  and  a  few  things  cool  — 
at  the  Country  Club  this  evening.  You  already  know 
/most  of  the  people  who  will  be  there.  May  I  call  for 
you  ?  —  SIDWELL." 

Florence  read  the  missive  slowly ;  then  slowly  returned 
it  to  its  cover.  There  was  no  need  to  tell  her  the  mean 
ing  of  the  unwritten  message  she  read  between  the  lines  of 
those  few  brief  sentences.  It  is  only  in  story-books  that 
human  beings  do  not  even  suspect  the  inevitable  until  it 
arrives.  As  well  as  she  knew  her  own  name,  she  realized 
that  in  her  answer  to  that  evening's  invitation  lay  the 
choice  of  her  future  life.  She  was  at  the  turning  of  the 
ways  —  a  turning  that  admitted  of  no  reconsideration. 
Dividing  at  her  feet,  each  equally  free,  were  the  trails  of 
the  natural  and  the  artificial.  For  a  time  they  kept  side 

[  306  ] 


Of  What  Avail? 

by  side ;  but  in  the  distance  they  were  as  separate  as  the 
two  ends  of  the  earth.  By  no  possibility  could  both  be 
followed.  She  must  choose  between  them,  and  abide  by 
her  decision  for  good  or  for  ill. 

As  slowly  as  she  had  read  the  note,  Florence  dressed  ; 
and  even  then  she  did  not  leave  the  room.  Bathing  her 
reddened  eyes,  she  drew  a  chair  in  front  of  the  window 
and  gazed  wistfully  down  at  the  handful  of  green  grass, 
with  the  unhealthy-looking  elm  in  its  centre,  which  made 
the  Baker  lawn.  Against  her  will  there  came  to  her  a 
vision  of  the  natural,  impersonated  in  the  form  of  Ben 
Blair  as  she  had  seen  him  yesterday.  Masterful,  optimis 
tic,  compellingly  honest,  splendidly  vital,  with  loves  and 
hates  like  elemental  forces  of  nature,  he  intruded  upon  her 
horizon  at  every  crisis.  Try  as  she  would  to  eliminate 
him  from  her  life,  she  could  not  do  it.  With  a  little 
catch  of  the  breath  she  remembered  that  last  night,  when 
that  man  had  done  —  what  he  did  —  it  was  not  of  what 
her  father  or  Clarence  Sidwell  would  think,  if  either  of 
them  knew,  but  of  what  Ben  Blair  would  think,  what  he 
would  do,  that  she  most  cared.  Reluctant  as  she  might 
be  to  admit  it  even  to  herself,  yet  in  her  inner  conscious 
ness  she  knew  that  this  prairie  man  had  a  power  over  her 
that  no  other  human  being  would  ever  have.  Still,  know 
ing  this,  she  was  deliberately  turning  away  from  him. 
If  she  accepted  that  invitation  for  to-night,  with  all  that 
it  might  mean,  the  separation  from  Ben  would  be  ir 
revocable.  Once  more  the  brown  head  dropped  into  the 
waiting  hands,  and  the  shoulders  rocked  to  and  fro  in 
indecision  and  perplexity. 

[  307  ] 


Ben  Blair 

*  God  help  me ! "  she  pleaded,  in  the  first  prayer  she 
had  voiced  in  months.  "  God  help  me  ! " 

Again  footsteps  approached  her  door,  and  a  hand  tapped 
insistently  thereon. 

"  Florence,"  said  her  father's  voice.     "  Are  you  up  ?  " 

The  girl  lifted  her  head.     "  Yes,"  she  answered. 

"Let  me  in,  then."  The  insistence  that  had  been  in 
the  knock  spoke  in  the  voice.  "  I  wish  to  speak  with 
you." 

Instantly  an  expression  almost  of  repulsion  flashed  over 
the  girl's  brown  face.  Never  in  his  life  had  the  English 
man  understood  his  daughter.  He  was  a  glaring  exam 
ple  of  those  who  cannot  catch  the  psychological  secret  of 
human  nature  in  a  given  situation.  From  the  girl's  child 
hood  he  had  been  complaisant  when  he  should  have  been 
severe,  had  stepped  in  with  the  parental  authority  recog 
nized  by  his  race  when  he  should  have  held  aloof. 

"  Some  other  time,  please,"  replied  Florence.  "  I  don't 
feel  like  talking  to-day." 

Scotty's  knuckles  met  the  door- panel  with  a  bang. 
"  But  I  do  feel  like  it,"  he  responded  ;  "  and  the  incli 
nation  is  increasing  every  moment.  You  would  try  the 
patience  of  Job  himself.  Come,  I  'm  waiting !  "  and  he 
shifted  from  one  foot  to  the  other  restlessly. 

Within  the  room  there  was  a  pause,  so  long  that  the 
Englishman  thought  he  was  going  to  be  refused  point- 
blank  ;  then  an  even  voice  said,  "  Come  in,"  and  he  en 
tered. 

He  had  expected  to  find  Florence  defiant  and  aggressive 
at  the  intrusion.  If  he  did  not  understand  this  daughter 

[  308  ] 


Of  What  Avail  ? 

of  his,  he  at  least  knew,  or  thought  he  knew,  a  few  of  her 
phases.  But  she  had  not  even  risen  from  her  seat,  and 
when  he  entered  she  merely  turned  her  head  until  her  eyes 
met  his.  Scotty  felt  his  parental  dignity  vanishing  like 
smoke,  —  his  feelings  very  like  those  of  a  burglar  who,  in 
vading  a  similar  boudoir,  should  find  the  rightful  owner  at 
prayer.  His  first  instinct  was  to  beat  a  retreat,  and  he 
stopped  uncertainly  just  within  the  doorway. 

"Well?"  questioned  Florence,  and  the  pupils  of  her 
brown  eyes  widened. 

Scotty  flushed,  but  memory  of  the  impassive  Alec  wait 
ing  below  returned,  and  his  anger  arose. 

"  How  much  longer  are  you  going  to  keep  that  negro 
waiting  ? "  he  demanded.  "  He  has  been  here  an  hour 
already  by  the  clock." 

A  look  of  almost  childlike  surprise  came  over  the  face 
of  the  girl,  an  expression  implying  that  the  other  was 
making  a  mountain  out  of  a  mole-hill.  "  I  really  don't 
know,"  she  said. 

Scotty  took  a  chair,  and  ran  his  long  fingers  through 
his  hair  perplexedly.  "  Florence,1'  he  said,  "  at  times  you 
are  simply  maddening ;  and  I  do  not  want  to  be  angry 
with  you.  Alec  says  he  is  waiting  for  an  answer.  What 
is  it  an  answer  to,  please  ?  It  is  my  right  to  know." 

Again  there  was  a  pause,  so  long  that  Scotty  expected 
unqualified  refusal :  and  again  he  was  disappointed.  With 
out  a  word,  the  girl  removed  the  note  from  the  envelope 
and  passed  it  over  to  him. 

Scotty  read  it  and  returned  the  sheet. 

"  You  have  n't  written  an  answer  yet,  I  judge  ?" 
[  309  ] 


Ben  Blair 

"No." 

The  Englishman's  fingers  were  tapping  nervously  on  the 
edge  of  the  chair-seat. 

"  I  wish  you  to  decline,  then." 

The  childish  expression  left  the  girl's  eyes,  the  listless- 
ness  left  her  attitude. 

"  Why,  if  I  may  ask  ?  "     A  challenge  was  in  the  query. 

Scotty  arose,  and  for  a  half-minute  walked  back  and 
forth  across  the  disordered  room.  At  last  he  stopped, 
facing  his  daughter. 

"  The  reason,  first  of  all,  is  that  I  do  not  like  this  man 
Sid  well  in  any  particular.  If  you  respect  my  wishes  you 
will  have  nothing  to  do  with  him  or  with  any  of  his  class 
in  future.  The  second  reason  is  that  it  is  high  time  some 
one  was  watching  the  kind  of  affairs  you  attend."  The 
speaker  looked  down  on  the  girl  sternly.  "I  think  it 
unnecessary  to  suggest  that  neither  of  us  desires  a  repe 
tition  of  last  night's  experience." 

Of  a  sudden,  her  face  very  red,  Florence  was  likewise 
upon  her  feet.  In  the  irony  of  circumstances,  Sidwell 
could  not  have  had  a  more  powerful  ally.  Her  decision 
was  instantly  formed. 

"I  quite  agree  with  you  about  the  incident  of  last 
evening,"  she  flamed.  "As  to  who  shall  be  my  associates, 
and  where  I  shall  go,  however,  I  am  of  age — "and  she 
started  to  leave  the  room. 

But  preventing,  Scotty  was  between  her  and  the  door. 
"  Florence,"  —  his  face  was  very  white  and  his  voice  trem 
bled,  —  "  we  may  as  well  have  an  understanding  now  as 
to  defer  it.  Maybe,  as  you  say,  I  have  no  authority  over 

[  310] 


Of  What  Avail? 

you  longer ;  but  at  least  I  can  make  a  request.  You  know 
that  I  love  you,  that  I  would  not  ask  anything  which 
was  not  for  your  good.  Knowing  this,  won't  you  at  my 
request  cease  going  with  this  man  ?  Won't  you  refuse 
his  invitation  for  to-night?" 

Nearer  than  ever  before  in  his  life  was  the  Englishman 
at  that  moment  to  grasping  the  secret  of  control  of  this 
child  of  many  moods.  Had  he  but  learned  it  a  few  years, 
even  a  few  months,  sooner —  But  again  was  the  satire 
of  fate  manifest,  the  same  irony  which,  jealously  with 
holding  the  rewards  of  labor,  keeps  the  student  at  his 
desk,  the  laborer  at  his  bench,  until  the  worse  than  use 
less  prizes  flutter  about  like  Autumn  leaves. 

For  a  moment  following  Scotty's  request  there  was 
absolute  silence  and  inaction ;  then,  with  a  little  appeal 
ing  movement,  the  girl  came  close  to  him. 

"Oh,  daddy!"  she  cried.  "Dear  old  daddy!  You 
make  it  so  hard  for  me !  I  know  you  love  me,  and  I  do 
want  to  do  as  you  wish ;  I  want  to  be  good ;  but  — 
but"  —  the  brown  head  was  upon  Scotty's  shoulder,  and 
two  soft  arms  gripped  him  tight,  —  "  but,"  the  voice  was 
all  but  choking,  "I  can't  let  him  go  now.  It's  too 
late!" 

The  driving  of  his  own  conveyance  was  to  Sid  well  a 
source  of  pride.  It  was  therefore  no  surprise  to  Florence 
that  at  dusk  he  and  his  pair  of  thoroughbreds  should 
appear  alone.  The  girl,  very  grave,  very  quiet,  had  been 
waiting  for  him,  and  was  ready  almost  before  he  stopped. 
With  a  smile  of  parental  pride  upon  her  face,  Mollie  was 

[311] 


Ben  Blair 

on  the  porch  to  say  good-bye.  At  the  last  moment  she 
approached  and  kissed  her  daughter  on  the  cheek.  Not 
in  months  before  had  the  mother  done  such  a  thing  as 
that ;  and  despite  herself,  as  she  walked  toward  the  wait 
ing  carriage,  there  came  to  the  girl  the  thought  of  another 
historic  kiss,  and  of  a  Judas,  the  betrayer.  Once  within 
the  narrow  single-seated  buggy  she  looked  back,  hoping 
against  hope ;  but  her  father  was  nowhere  in  sight. 

After  the  first  greeting,  neither  she  nor  Sidwell  spoke 
for  some  minutes.  For  a  time  Florence  did  not  even  look 
at  her  companion.  She  had  a  suspicion  that  he  already 
knew  most  if  not  all  that  had  taken  place  in  the  Baker 
home  the  last  day ;  and  the  thought  tinged  her  face 
scarlet.  At  last  she  gave  a  furtive  glance  at  him.  He 
was  not  looking,  and  her  eyes  lingered  on  his  face.  It 
was  paler  than  she  had  ever  seen  it  before;  there  were 
deep  circles  under  the  eyes,  and  he  looked  nervous  and 
tired ;  but  over  it  all  there  was  an  expression  of  exalta 
tion  that  could  have  but  one  meaning  to  her. 

"  You  must  let  me  read  it  when  you  get  it  in  shape," 
she  began  suddenly. 

Sidwell  turned  blankly.    "  Read  what,  please  ?  "  he  asked. 

The  girl  smiled  triumphantly.  "The  story  you  have 
just  written.  I  know  by  your  face  it  must  be  good." 

The  flame  of  exaltation  vanished.  The  man  understood 
now. 

"  What  if  I  should  refute  your  theory  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  hardly  believe  that  is  possible.  I  know  of  nothing 
else  which  could  make  you  look  like  that." 

Sidwell  hesitated.  "  There  are  but  few  things,"  he  ad- 
[  312] 


Of  What  Avail? 

mitted,  "  but  nevertheless  I  spoke  the  truth.     It  was  one 
of  them  this  time." 

Florence  smiled  interestedly.  "  I  am  very  curious,"  she 
suggested. 

The  brown  eyes  and  the  black  met  steadily.  "  Very 
well,  then,"  said  the  man,  "  I  '11  tell  you.  The  reason 
was,  because  I  have  with  me  the  handsomest  girl  in  the 
whole  city." 

Instantly  the  brown  eyes  dropped ;  the  face  reddened, 
but  not  with  the  flush  of  pleasure.  Florence  was  not  yet 
sufficiently  artificial  for  such  empty  compliment. 

"  I  'd  rather  you  would  n't  say  such  things,"  she  said 
simply.  "They  hurt  me." 

"  But  not  when  they  Ye  true,"  he  persisted. 

There  was  no  answer,  and  they  drove  on  again  in  silence ; 
the  tap  of  the  thoroughbreds'  feet  on  the  asphalt  sounding 
regular  as  the  rattle  of  a  snare-drum,  the  rows  of  houses  at 
either  side  running  past  like  the  shifting  scenes  of  a  pano 
rama.  They  passed  numbers  of  other  carriages,  and  to  the 
occupants  of  several  Sidwell  lifted  his  hat.  Each  as  he  did 
so  glanced  at  his  companion  curiously.  The  man  was  far 
too  well  known  to  have  his  actions  pass  without  gossip. 
At  last  they  reached  a  semblance  of  the  open  country, 
and  a  few  minutes  later  Sidwell  pointed  out  the  row  of 
lights  on  the  broad  veranda  of  the  big  one-story  club 
house.  The  affair  had  begun  in  the  afternoon  with  a  golf 
tournament,  and  when  the  two  drove  up  and  Sidwell 
turned  over  his  trotters  to  a  man  in  waiting,  the  enter 
tainment  was  in  full  blast,  although  the  hour  was  still 
early. 

[313] 


Ben  Blair 

The  building  itself,  ordinarily  ample  for  the  organiza 
tion's  rather  exclusive  membership,  was  fairly  crowded  on 
this  occasion.  The  club-house  had  been  given  up  to  the 
orchestra  and  dancers,  and  refreshments  were  being  served 
on  the  lawn  and  under  the  adjoining  trees.  Even  the 
veranda  had  been  cleared  of  chairs. 

As  Sidwell  and  his  companion  approached  the  place, 
he  said  in  an  undertone,  "  Let 's  not  get  in  the  crush  yet ; 
if  we  do,  we  won't  escape  all  the  evening."  His  dark  eyes 
looked  into  his  companion's  face  meaningly.  "I  have 
something  I  wish  especially  to  say  to  you." 

Florence  did  not  meet  his  eyes,  but  she  well  knew  the 
message  therein.  She  nodded  assent  to  the  request. 

Making  a  detour,  they  emerged  into  the  park,  and 
strolled  back  to  a  place  where,  seeing,  they  themselves 
could  not  be  seen.  Sidwell  found  a  bench,  and  they  sat 
down  side  by  side.  The  girl  offered  no  suggestion,  no 
protest.  Since  that  row  of  lights  had  appeared  in  the 
distance  she  had  become  passive.  She  knew  beforehand 
all  that  was  to  take  place ;  something  that  she  had  decided 
to  accede  to,  the  details  of  which  were  unimportant.  An 
apathy  which  she  did  not  attempt  to  explain  held  her. 
The  music  heard  so  near,  the  glimpses  of  shifting,  fault 
lessly  dressed  figures,  the  loveliness  of  a  perfect  night  — 
things  that  ordinarily  would  have  been  intensely  exhilara 
ting  —  now  passed  by  her  unnoticed.  Her  senses  were 
temporarily  in  lethargy.  If  she  had  a  conscious  wish,  it 
was  that  the  inevitable  would  come,  and  be  over  with. 

From  without  this  land  of  unreality  she  was  suddenly 
conscious  of  a  voice  speaking  to  her.  "Florence,"  it 

[314] 


Of  What  Avail? 

said,  "  Florence  Baker,  you  know  before  I  say  a  word  the 
thing  I  wish  to  tell  you,  the  question  I  wish  to  ask.  You 
know,  because  more  than  once  I  Ve  tried  to  speak,  and  at 
the  last  moment  you  have  prevented.  But  you  can't  stop 
me  to-night.  We  have  run  on  understanding  each  other 
long  enough ;  too  long.  I  have  never  lied  to  you  yet, 
Florence,  and  I  am  not  going  to  begin  now.  I  will  not 
even  analyze  the  feeling  I  have  for  you,  or  call  it  by  name. 
I  know  this  is  an  unheard-of-way  to  talk  to  a  girl,  es 
pecially  one  so  impressionable  as  you ;  but  I  cannot  help 
it.  There  is  something  about  you,  Florence,  that  keeps 
me  from  untruth,  when  probably  under  the  same  circum 
stances  I  would  lie  to  any  other  woman  in  the  world.  I 
simply  know  that  you  impersonate  a  desire  of  my  nature 
ungratified ;  that  without  you  I  have  no  wish  to  live." 

Strange  and  cold-blooded  as  this  proposal  would  have 
seemed  to  a  listener,  Florence  heard  it  without  a  sign. 
It  did  not  even  affect  her  with  the  shock  of  the  unexpec 
ted.  It  was  merely  a  part  of  that  inevitable  something 
she  had  anticipated,  and  had  for  months  watched  slowly 
taking  form. 

"I  suppose  it  seems  unaccountable  to  you,"  the  voice 
went  on,  "  that  I  should  have  been  attracted  to  you  in  the 
first  place.  It  has  often  been  so  to  me,  and  I  Ve  tried  to 
explain  it.  Beautiful,  you  undeniably  are,  Florence ;  but 
I  do  not  believe  it  was  that.  It  was,  I  think,  because, 
despite  your  ideals  of  something  which  —  pardon  me  — 
does  n't  exist,  you  were  absolutely  natural ;  and  the  women 
I  \1  met  before  were  the  reverse  of  that.  Like  myself, 
they  had  tasted  of  life  and  found  it  flat.  I  danced  with 

[  315  ] 


Ben  Blair 

them,  drank  with  them,  went  the  round  of  so-called  gayety 
with  them ;  but  they  repelled  me.  But  you,  Florence, 
are  very  different.  You  make  me  think  of  a  prairie 
anemone  with  the  dew  on  its  petals.  I  have  n't  much  to 
offer  you  save  money,  which  you  already  have  in  plenty, 
and  an  empty  fame ;  but  1 11  play  the  game  fair.  1 11 
take  you  anywhere  in  the  world,  do  anything  you  wish." 
Out  of  the  shadow  an  arm  crept  around  the  girl's  waist, 
closed  there,  and  she  did  not  stir.  "  I  am  writing  an  Eng 
lish  story  now,  and  the  principal  character,  a  soldier,  has 
been  ordered  to  India.  To  catch  the  atmosphere,  I  've  got 
to  be  on  the  spot.  The  boat  I  wish  to  take  will  leave  in 
ten  days.  Will  you  go  with  me  as  my  wife  ?  " 

The  voice  paused,  and  the  face  so  near  her  own  re 
mained  motionless,  waiting.  Into  the  pause  crept  the 
music  of  the  orchestra  —  beat,  beat,  beat,  like  the  throb 
bing  of  a  mighty  heart.  Above  it,  distinct  for  an  instant, 
sounded  the  tinkle  of  a  woman's  laugh  ;  then  again  silence. 
It  was  now  the  giiTs  turn  to  speak,  to  answer ;  but  not  a 
sound  left  her  lips.  She  had  an  odd  feeling  that  she  was 
playing  a  game  of  checkers,  and  that  it  was  her  turn  to 
play.  "  Move  !  "  said  an  inward  monitor.  "Move  !  move !" 
But  she  knew  not  where  or  how. 

The  man's  arm  tightened  around  her ;  his  lips  touched 
hers  again  and  again ;  and  although  she  was  conscious 
of  the  fact,  it  carried  no  particular  significance.  It  all 
seemed  a  part  of  the  scene  that  was  going  on  in  which 
she  was  a  silent  actor  —  of  the  game  in  which  she  was 
a  player. 

"  Florence,""  said  an  insistent  voice,  "  Florence,  Florence 
[316] 


Of  What  Avail? 

Baker!  Don't  sit  like  that!  For  God's  sake,  speak  to 
me,  answer  me  ! " 

This  time  the  figure  stirred,  the  head  drooped  in 
assent. 

"Yes,"  she  said. 

Again  the  circling  arm  tightened,  and  the  man's  lips 
touched  her  own,  again  and  again.  The  very  repetition 
aroused  her. 

"  And  you  will  sail  with  me  in  ten  days  ?  " 

Fully  awake  was  Florence  Baker  now,  fully  conscious  of 
all  that  had  happened  and  was  happening. 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  The  sooner  the  better.  I  want  to 
have  it  over  with."  A  moment  longer  she  sat  still  as 
death ;  then  suddenly  the  mood  of  apathy  departed,  and 
in  infinite  weakness,  infinite  pathos,  the  dark  head  buried 
itself  on  the  man's  shoulder.  "  Promise  me,"  she  pleaded 
brokenly,  "that  you  will  be  kind  to  me!  Promise  me 
that  you  always  will  be  kind ! " 


I  317  ] 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

LOVE'S  SURRENDER 

SCOTTY  BAKER  was  not  an  adept  at  concealing 
his  emotions,  and  he  stared  in  unqualified  surprise 
at  the  long  figure  in  brown  which  of  a  sudden 
intruded  into  his  range  of  vision.  The  morning  paper 
upon  his  knees  fluttered  unnoticed  to  the  floor  of  the 
porch. 

"  Ben  Blair,  by  all  that 's  good  and  proper ! "  he  ex 
claimed  to  the  man  who,  without  a  look  to  either  side, 
turned  up  the  short  walk.  "  Where  in  heaven's  name  did 
you  come  from  ?  I  supposed  you  'd  gone  home  a  week 
ago." 

Blair  stopped  at  the  steps,  and  deliberately  wiped  the 
perspiration  from  his  face. 

"  You  were  misinformed  about  my  going,"  he  explained. 
"  I  changed  hotels,  that  was  all." 

Scotty  stared  harder  than  before. 

"  But  why  ?  "  he  groped.  "  I  inquired  of  the  clerk,  and 
he  said  you  had  gone  by  an  afternoon  train.  I  don't 
see  —  " 

Ben  mounted  the  steps  and  took  a  chair  opposite  the 
Englishman. 

"  If  you  will  excuse  me,"  he  said,  "  I  would  rather  not 
go  into  details.  The  fact's  enough  —  I  am  still  here. 

[318] 


Love's  Surrender 

Besides  —  pardon  me  —  I  did  not  call  to  be  questioned, 
but  to  question.  You  remember  the  last  time  I  saw 
you  ?  " 

Scotty  nodded  an  affirmative.  He  had  a  premonition 
that  the  unexpected  was  about  to  happen. 

tt  Yes,"  he  said. 

Ben  lit  a  cigar.  "  You  remember,  then,  that  you  made 
me  a  certain  promise  ?  " 

Scotty  threw  one  leg  over  the  other  restlessly.  "  Yes, 
I  remember,"  he  repeated. 

The  visitor  eyed  him  keenly.  "  I  would  like  to  know  if 
you  kept  it,"  he  said. 

Scotty  felt  the  seat  of  his  chair  growing  even  more  un 
comfortable  than  before,  and  he  cast  about  for  an  avenue 
of  escape.  One  presented  itself. 

"  Is  that  what  you  stayed  to  find  out  ?  "  he  questioned  in 
his  turn. 

Ben  blew  out  a  cloud  of  smoke,  and  then  another. 

"  No,  not  the  main  reason.  But  that  has  nothing  to  do 
with  the  subject.  I  have  a  right  to  ask  the  question.  Did 
you  or  did  you  not  keep  your  promise  ?  " 

The  Englishman's  first  impulse  was  to  refuse  point-blank 
to  answer ;  then,  on  second  thought,  he  decided  that  such 
a  course  would  be  unwise.  The  other  really  did  have  a 
right  to  ask. 

« I  _  »  he  hesitated,  «  decided  —  " 

But  interrupting,  Ben  raised  his  hand,  palm  outward. 

"  Don't  dodge  the  question.     Yes  or  no  ?  " 

Scotty  hesitated  again,  and  his  face  grew  red. 

«  No,"  he  said. 

L319] 


Ben  Blair 

The  visitor's  hand,  fingers  outspread,  returned  to  his 
knee. 

"  Thank  you.  I  have  one  more  question  to  ask.  Do 
you  intend,  without  trying  to  prevent  it,  to  let  your 
daughter  throw  away  her  every  chance  of  future  happi 
ness  ?  Are  you,  Florence's  father,  going  to  let  her  marry 
Sid  well?" 

With  one  motion  Scotty  was  on  his  feet.  The  eyes 
behind  the  thick  lenses  fairly  flashed. 

"  You  are  insulting,  sir, "  he  blazed.  "  I  can  stand 
much  from  you,  Ben  Blair,  but  this  interference  in  my 
family  affairs  I  cannot  overlook.  I  request  you  to  leave 
my  premises ! " 

Blair  did  not  stir.  His  face  remained  as  impassive  as 
before. 

"Your  pardon  again,"  he  said  steadily,  "but  I  re 
fuse.  I  did  not  come  to  quarrel  with  you,  and  I  won't ; 
but  we  will  have  an  understanding  —  now.  Sit  down, 
please." 

The  Englishman  stared,  almost  with  open  mouth.  Had 
any  one  told  him  he  would  be  coerced  in  this  way  within 
his  own  home  he  would  have  called  that  person  mad ;  nev 
ertheless,  the  first  flash  of  anger  over,  he  said  no  more. 

"  Sit  down,  please,"  repeated  Ben  ;  and  this  time,  with 
out  a  word  or  a  protest,  he  was  obeyed. 

Ben  straightened  in  his  seat,  then  leaned  forward.  "  Mr. 
Baker,"  he  said,  "  you  do  not  doubt  that  I  love  Florence 
—  that  I  wish  nothing  but  her  good  ?  " 

Scotty  nodded  a  reluctant  assent. 

"  No ;  I  don't  doubt  you,  Ben,"  he  said. 
[  320  ] 


Love's  Surrender 

The  thin  face  of  the  younger  man  leaned  forward  and 
grew  more  intense. 

"  You  know  what  Sidwell  is  —  what  the  result  will  be 
if  Florence  marries  him  ?  " 

Scotty's  head  dropped  into  his  hands.  He  knew  what 
was  coming. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  he  admitted. 

Ben  paused,  and  had  the  other  been  looking  he  would 
have  seen  that  his  ordinarily  passive  face  was  working  in  a 
way  which  no  one  would  have  thought  possible. 

"  In  heaven's  name,  then,11  he  said,  slowly,  "  why  do  you 
allow  it  ?  Have  you  forgotten  that  it  is  only  three  days 
until  the  date  set  ?  God  !  man,  you  must  be  sleeping  !  It 
is  ghastly  —  even  the  thought  of  it !  " 

Surprised  out  of  himself,  Scotty  looked  up.  The  intens 
ity  of  the  appeal  was  a  thing  to  put  life  into  a  figure  of 
clay.  For  an  instant  he  felt  the  stimulant,  felt  his  blood 
quicken  at  the  suggestion  of  action ;  then  his  impotence 
returned. 

"  I  have  tried,  Ben,"  he  explained  weakly,  "  but  I  can 
do  nothing.  If  I  attempted  to  interfere  it  would  only 
make  matters  worse.  Florence  is  as  completely  out  of  my 
control  as  —  "  he  paused  for  a  simile  —  "  as  the  sunshine. 
I  missed  my  opportunity  with  her  when  she  was  young. 
She  has  always  had  her  own  way,  and  she  will  have  it 
now.  It  is  the  same  as  when  she  decided  to  come  to  town. 
She  controls  me,  not  I  her."" 

Blair  settled  back  in  his  chair.     The  mask  of  impassiv 
ity  dropped  back  over  his  face,  not  again  to  lift.     He  was 
again  in  command  of  himself. 
21  [  321  ] 


Ben  Blair 

"  You  expect  to  do  nothing  more,  then  ? "  he  asked 
finally. 

Scotty  did  not  look  up.  "  No,"  he  responded.  "  I  can 
do  nothing  more.  She  will  have  to  find  out  her  mistake 
for  herself. " 

Ben  regarded  the  older  man  steadily.  It  would  have 
been  difficult  to  express  that  look  in  words. 

"  You  'd  be  willing  to  help,  would  you,"  he  suggested, 
"  if  you  saw  a  way  ?  " 

The  Englishman's  eyes  lifted.  Even  the  incredible  took 
on  an  air  of  possibility  in  the  hands  of  this  strong-willed 
ranchman. 

"  Yes,""  he  repeated.  "  I  will  gladly  do  anything  I 
can." 

For  half  a  minute  Ben  Blair  did  not  speak.  Not  a  nerve 
twitched  or  a  muscle  stirred  in  his  long  body;  then  he 
stood  up,  the  broad  sinewy  shoulders  squared,  the  master 
ful  chin  lifted. 

"  Very  well,"  he  said.  "  Call  a  carriage,  and  be  ready  to 
leave  town  in  half  an  hour." 

Scotty  blinked  helplessly.  The  necessity  of  sudden 
action  always  threw  him  into  confusion.  His  mind  need 
ed  not  minutes  but  days  to  adjust  itself  to  the  unpremedi 
tated. 

"  Why  ?  "  he  queried.     "  What  do  you  intend  doing  ?  " 

Bat  Ben  did  not  stop  to  explain.  Already  he  was  at 
the  door  of  the  vestibule.  "  Don't  ask  me  now.  Do  as  I 
say,  and  you  '11  see  !  "  And  he  stepped  inside. 

Within  the  entrance,  he  paused  for  a  moment.  He  had 
never  been  in  any  room  of  the  house  except  the  library 

[  322  ] 


Love's  Surrender 

adjoining ;  and  after  a  few  seconds,  walking  over,  he  tapped 
twice  on  the  door. 

There  was  no  answer,  and  he  stepped  inside.  The  place 
was  empty,  but,  listening  from  the  dining-room  on  the 
left  he  heard  the  low  intermittent  murmur  of  voices  in 
conversation  and  the  occasional  click  of  china.  Sliding 
doors  connected  the  rooms,  and  again  for  an  instant  he 
hesitated.  Then,  pulling  them  apart,  he  stood  fairly  in 
the  aperture. 

As  he  had  expected,  Florence  and  her  mother  were  at 
breakfast.  The  doors  had  slid  noiselessly,  and  for  an  in 
stant  neither  observed  him.  Florence  was  nearest,  half- 
facing  him,  and  she  was  the  first  to  glance  up.  As  she 
did  so,  the  coffee-cup  in  her  hand  shook  spasmodically  and 
a  great  brown  blotch  spread  over  the  white  tablecloth. 
Simultaneously  her  eyes  widened,  her  cheeks  blanched,  and 
she  stared  as  at  a  ghost.  Her  mother,  too,  turned  at  the 
spectacle,  and  her  color  shifted  to  an  ashen  gray. 

For  some  seconds  not  one  of  the  three  spoke  or  stirred. 
It  was  Mrs.  Baker  who  first  arose  and  advanced  toward 
the  intruder,  as  threateningly  as  it  was  possible  for  her 
to  do. 

"  Who,  if  I  might  ask,  invited  you  to  come  this  way  ?  " 
she  challenged. 

Ben  took  one  step  inside  the  room  and  folded  his  arms. 

"  I  came  without  being  asked,"  he  explained  evenly. 

Mollie's  weak  oval  face  stiffened.  She  felt  instinctively 
that  her  chiefest  desires  were  in  supreme  menace.  But 
one  defense  suggested  itself — to  be  rid  of  the  intruder  at 
once. 

[323] 


Ben  Blair 

*c  I  trust,  then,  you  are  enough  of  a  gentleman  to  return 
the  way  you  came,"  she  said  icily. 

Ben  did  not  even  glance  at  her.  He  was  looking  at  the 
dainty  little  figure  still  motionless  at  the  table. 

"  If  that  is  the  mark  of  a  gentleman,  I  am  not  one,"  he 
answered. 

The  mother's  face  flamed.  Like  Scotty,  her  brain  moved 
slowly,  and  on  the  spur  of  the  moment  inadequate  insult 
alone  answered  her  call. 

"  I  might  have  expected  such  a  remark  from  a  cowman  ! " 
she  burst  forth. 

Instantly  Florence  was  upon  her  feet;  but  Ben  Blair 
gave  no  indication  that  he  had  heard.  His  arms  still 
folded,  he  took  two  steps  nearer  the  girl,  then  stopped. 

"Florence,"  he  said  steadily,  "I  have  just  seen  your 
father.  We  three  —  he,  you,  and  I  —  are  going  back 
home,  back  to  the  prairies.  Our  train  leaves  at  eleven 
o'clock.  The  carriage  will  be  here  in  half  an  hour.  You 
have  plenty  of  time  if  you  hurry." 

Again  there  was  silence.  Once  more  it  was  the  mother 
who  spoke  first. 

"  You  must  be  mad,  both  of  you !  "  she  cried.  "  Flor 
ence  is  to  be  married  in  three  days,  and  it  would  take  two 
to  go  each  way.  You  must  be  mad ! " 

It  was  the  girl's  turn  to  grow  pale.  She  began  to  under 
stand. 

"  You  say  you  and  papa  evolved  this  programme  ?  "  she 
said  sarcastically.  "  What  part,  pray,  did  he  take  ?  w 

Blair  was  as  impassive  as  before. 

"  I  suggested  it,  and  your  father  acquiesced." 


Love's  Surrender 

"  And  the  third  party,  myself  —  "  The  girl's  eyes  were 
very  bright. 

"  I  undertook  the  task  of  having  you  ready  when  the 
carriage  comes." 

One  of  Florence's  brown  hands  grasped  the  back  of  the 
chair  before  her. 

"  I  trust  you  did  not  underestimate  the  difficulty,1'  she 
commented  ironically.  "Otherwise  you  might  be  disap 
pointed." 

Ben  said  nothing.     He  did  not  even  stir. 

Another  group  of  seconds  were  gathered  into  the  past. 
The  inactivity  tugged  at  the  girl's  nerves. 

"  By  the  way,"  she  asked,  "  where  are  we  going  to  stay 
when  we  arrive,  and  for  how  long  ?  " 

"  You  are  to  be  my  guests,"  answered  Blair.  "  As  to 
the  length  of  time,  nothing  has  been  arranged." 

Florence  made  one  more  effort  to  consider  the  affair 
lightly. 

"  You  speak  with  a  good  deal  of  assurance,"  she  com 
mented.  "  Did  it  never  occur  to  you  that  at  this  particu 
lar  time  I  might  decide  not  to  go  ?  " 

Ben  returned  her  look. 

"  No,"  he  said. 

Beneath  the  trim  brown  figure  one  foot  was  nervously 
tapping  the  floor. 

"  In  other  words,  you  expect  to  take  me  against  my  will, 
—  by  physical  force  ?  " 

"  No."  Ben  again  spoke  deliberately.  "  You  will  come 
of  your  own  choice." 

"And  leave  Mr.  Sid  well  ?" 

[  325  ] 


Ben  Blair 

"Yes." 

"  Without  an  explanation  ?  " 

"  None  will  be  necessary,  I  think.  The  fact  itself  will 
be  enough."" 

"  And  never  —  marry  him  ?  " 

"And  never  marry  him." 

"  You  think  he  would  not  follow  ?" 

"  I  know  he  would  not !  " 

There  was  a  pause  in  the  swift  passage  of  words.  The 
girl's  breath  was  coming  with  difficulty.  The  spell  of  this 
indomitable  rancher  was  settling  upon  her. 

"You  really  imagine  I  will  do  such  an  unheard-of 
thing?"  she  asked  slowly. 

"  I  imagine  nothing,"  he  answered  quickly.     "  I  know." 

It  was  the  crisis,  and  into  it  Mollie  intruded  with  clumsy 
tread.  "  Florence,"  she  urged,  "  Florence,  don't  listen  to 
him  any  longer.  He  must  be  intoxicated.  Come  with 
me  !  "  and  she  started  to  drag  the  girl  away. 

Without  a  word,  Ben  Blair  walked  across  to  the  door 
leading  into  the  room  beyond,  and  stood  with  his  hand  on 
the  knob. 

"  Mrs.  Baker,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I  thought  I  would  not 
speak  an  unkind  word  to-day,  no  matter  what  was  said  to 
me;  but  you  have  offended  too  often."  His  glance  took  in 
the  indolently  shapeless  figure  from  head  to  toe,  and  back 
again  until  he  met  her  eye  to  eye.  "  You  are  the  per 
sonification  of  cowardice,  of  selfishness  and  snobbery,  that 
makes  one  despise  his  kind.  For  mere  personal  vanity 
you  would  sacrifice  your  own  daughter  —  your  own  flesh 
and  blood.  Probably  we  shall  never  meet  again  ;  but  if 

[326] 


Love's  Surrender 

we  should,  do  not  dare  to  speak  to  me.  Do  not  speak  to 
me  now  ! "  He  swung  open  the  door,  and  indicated  the 
passage  with  a  nod  of  his  head.  "  Go,"  he  said,  "  and 
if  you  are  a  Christian,  pray  for  a  better  heart  —  for 
forgiveness  ! " 

The  woman  hesitated ;  her  lips  moved,  but  she  was 
dumb.  She  wanted  to  refuse,  but  the  irresistible  power  in 
those  relentless  blue  eyes  compelled  her  to  obey.  Without 
a  word  she  left  the  room  and  closed  the  door  behind  her. 

Ben  Blair  came  back.     The  girl  had  not  moved. 

"  Florence," he  said,  "there  are  but  twenty  minutes  left. 
I  ask  you  again  to  get  ready." 

The  girl's  color  rose  anew ;  her  blood  flowed  tumultu- 
ously,  until  she  could  feel  the  beating  of  the  pulses  at  her 
wrists. 

"  Ben  Blair,"  she  challenged,  "you  are  trying  to  pre- 
vent  my  marrying  another  man !  Is  it  not  so  ? " 

The  rancher  folded  his  arms  again. 

"  I  am  preventing  it,"  he  said. 

Florence's  brown  eyes  blazed.  She  clasped  her  hands 
together  until  the  fingers  were  white. 

"You  admit  it,  then  !  "  she  cried,  looking  at  her  compan 
ion  steadily,  a  world  of  scorn  in  her  face.  "  I  never  thought 
such  a  thing  possible  —  that  you  would  let  your  jealousy 
get  the  better  of  you  like  this  ! "  She  paused,  and  hurled 
the  taunt  she  knew  would  hurt  him  most.  "  You  are  the 
last  person  on  earth  I  would  have  selected  to  become  a 
dog  in  the  manger  ! " 

Ben  did  not  stir,  although  the  brown  of  his  sun 
tanned  face  went  white. 

[  327  ] 


Ben  Blair 

"  I  looked  for  that,'1  he  said  simply. 

Florence's  brown  eyes  widened  in  wonder  —  and  in 
something  more  —  something  she  did  not  understand. 
Her  heart  was  beating  more  wildly  than  before.  She 
felt  her  self-control  slipping  from  her  grasp,  like  a  rope 
through  her  hands. 

"  There  seems  nothing  more  to  be  said,  then,"  she  said, 
"  except  that  I  will  not  go." 

Even  yet  Blair  did  not  move. 

"You  will  go.  The  carriage  comes  in  ten  minutes," 
he  reiterated  calmly. 

The  small  figure  stiffened,  the  dainty  chin  tilted  in  the 
air. 

"  I  defy  you  to  tell  me  how  you  can  force  me  to  go !  " 

It  was  the  supreme  moment,  but  Benjamin  Blair  showed 
no  trace  of  excitement  or  of  passion.  His  folded  arms 
remained  passive  across  his  chest. 

"  Florence  Baker,  did  I  ever  lie  to  you  ?  " 

The  girl's  lip  trembled.    She  knew  now  what  to  expect. 

"  No,"  she  said. 

"  You  are  quite  sure  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  am  quite  sure." 

"Did  I  ever  say  I  would  do  anything  that  I  did 
not  do?" 

The  girl  had  an  all  but  irrepressible  desire  to  cry  out, 
to  cover  her  face  like  a  child.  A  flash  of  anger  at  her 
inability  to  maintain  her  self-control  swept  over  her. 

"  No,"  she  admitted.  "  I  never  knew  you  to  break  your 
word." 

"  Ver}  well,  then,"  still  no  haste,  no  anger,  —  only  the 
[  328  ] 


Love's  Surrender 

relentless  calm  which  was  infinitely  more  terrible  than 
either.  "  I  will  tell  you  why  of  your  own  choice  you  will 
go  with  me.  It  is  because  you  value  the  life  of  Clarence 
Sidwell ;  because,  as  surely  as  I  have  not  lied  to  you  or 
to  any  human  being  in  the  past,  there  is  no  power  on 
earth  that  can  otherwise  keep  me  away  from  him  an  hour 
longer." 

Realization  came  instantaneously  to  Florence  Baker  and 
blotted  out  self-consciousness.  The  nervous  tension  van 
ished  as  fog  before  the  sun. 

"  You  would  not  do  it,1'  she  said,  very  steadily.  "  You 
could  not  do  it !  " 

Ben  Blair  said  not  a  word. 

"  You  could  not,"  repeated  the  girl  swiftly ;  "  could  not, 
because  you  —  love  me  !  " 

One  of  the  man's  hands  loosened  in  an  unconscious 
gesture. 

"  Don't  repeat  that,  please,  or  trust  in  it,"  he  answered. 
"You  misled  me  once,  but  you  can't  mislead  me  again. 
It  is  because  I  love  you  that  I  will  do  what  I  said." 

There  was  but  one  weapon  in  the  arsenal  adequate  to 
meet  the  emergency.  With  a  sudden  motion,  the  girl 
came  close  to  him. 

"Ben,  Ben  Blair,"  her  arms  flashed  around  the  man's 
neck,  the  brown  eyes  —  moist,  sparkling  —  were  turned  to 
his  face,  "  promise  me  you  will  not  do  it."  The  dainty 
throat  swelled  and  receded  with  her  short  quick  breaths. 
"  Promise  me !  Please  promise  me  !" 

For  a  second  the  rancher  did  not  stir  ;  then,  very  gently, 
he  freed  himself  and  moved  a  step  backward. 

[  329  ] 


Ben  Blair 

"  Florence,"  he  said  slowly,  "  you  do  not  know  me  even 
yet."  He  drew  out  his  big  old-fashioned  silver  watch,  once 
Rankings.  "  You  still  have  four  minutes  to  get  ready  — 
no  more,  no  less." 

Silence  like  that  of  a  death-chamber  fell  over  the  blight 
little  dining-room.  From  the  outside  came  the  sound  of 
Mollie's  step  as  she  moved  back  and  forth,  back  and  forth, 
but  dared  not  enter.  A  boy  was  clipping  the  lawn,  and 
the  muffled  purr  of  the  mower,  accompanied  by  the  bit  of 
popular  ragtime  he  was  whistling,  stole  into  the  room. 

Suddenly  a  carriage  drove  up  in  front  of  the  house,  and 
leaping  from  his  seat  the  driver  stood  waiting.  The  door 
of  the  vestibule  opened,  and  Scotty  himself  stepped  uncer 
tainly  within.  At  the  library  entrance  he  halted,  but  the 
odor  of  the  black  cigar  he  was  smoking  was  wafted  in. 

Through  it  all,  neither  of  the  two  in  that  room  had 
stirred.  It  would  have  been  impossible  to  tell  what  Ben 
Blair  was  thinking.  His  eyes  never  left  the  watch  in  his 
hand.  During  the  first  minute  the  girl  had  not  looked  at 
her  companion.  Unappeasable  anger  seemed  personified 
in  her.  For  half  of  the  next  minute  she  still  stood  im 
passive  ;  then  she  glanced  up  almost  surreptitiously.  For 
the  long  third  minute  the  eyes  held  where  they  had  lifted, 
and  slowly  over  the  soft  brown  face,  taking  the  place  of 
the  former  expression,  came  a  look  that  was  not  of  anger 
or  of  hatred,  not  even  of  dislike,  but  of  something  the  re 
verse,  something  all  but  unbelievable.  Her  dark  eyes 
softened.  A  choking  lump  came  into  her  throat;  and 
still,  in  seeming  paradox,  she  was  of  a  sudden  happier 
than  at  any  time  she  could  remember. 

[  330  ] 


Love's  Surrender 

Before  the  last  minute  was  up,  before  Ben  Blair  had 
replaced  the  watch,  she  was  in  the  adjoining  room  saying 
good-bye  to  Mollie  hurriedly ;  saying  something  more,  — 
a  thing  that  fairly  took  the  mother's  breath. 

"  Florence  Baker ! "  she  gasped,  "  you  shall  not  do  it ! 
If  you  do,  I  will  disown  you !  I  will  never  forgive  you  — 
never  !  never  !  " 

But,  unheeding,  the  girl  was  already  back,  and  looking 
into  Ben's  face.  Her  eyes  were  very  bright,  and  there 
was  about  her  a  suppressed  excitement  that  the  other 
did  not  clearly  understand. 

"  I  am  ready,"  she  said,  "  on  one  condition." 

Blair's  blue  eyes  looked  a  question.  In  any  other 
mood  he  would  have  recognized  Florence,  but  this  strange 
person  he  hardly  seemed  to  know. 

"  I  am  listening,"  he  said. 

The  girl  hesitated,  the  rosy  color  mounting  to  her  cheeks. 
Decision  of  action  was  far  easier  than  expression. 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  she  faltered,  "  but  alone." 

A  suggestion  of  the  flame  on  the  other's  face  sprang  to 
the  man's  also. 

"  I  think,  under  the  circumstances,"  he  stammered,  "  it 
would  be  better  to  have  your  father  go  too." 

The  dainty  brown  figure  stiffened. 

"  Very  well,  then  —  I  will  not  go !  " 

The  man  stood  for  a  moment  immovable,  with  unshift- 
ing  eyes,  like  a  figure  in  clay ;  then,  turning,  without  a 
word,  he  started  to  leave  the  room.  He  had  almost 
reached  the  door,  when  he  heard  a  voice  behind  him. 

"  Ben  Blair,"  it  said  insistently,  "  Ben  Blair!" 
[  831  ] 


Ben  Blair 

He  paused,  glanced  back,  and  could  scarcely  believe  his 
eyes.  The  girl  was  coming  toward  him  ;  but  it  was  a 
Florence  he  had  not  previously  known.  Her  face  was 
rosier  than  before,  red  to  her  very  ears  and  to  the  waves 
of  her  hair.  Her  chin  was  held  high,  and  beneath  the 
thin  brown  skin  of  the  throat  the  veins  were  athrob. 

"  Ben  Blair,"  she  repeated  intensely,  "  Ben  Blair,  can^t 
you  understand  what  I  meant  ?  Must  I  put  it  into  words  ?  " 
The  soft  brown  eyes  were  looking  at  him  frankly.  "  Oh, 
you  are  blind,  blind  !  " 

For  a  second,  like  the  lull  before  the  thunderclap,  the 
man  did  not  move ;  then  of  a  sudden  he  grasped  the  girl 
by  the  shoulders,  and  held  her  at  arm^s  length. 

"  Florence,"  he  cried,  "  are  you  playing  with  me  ?  " 

She  spoke  no  word,  but  her  gaze  held  his  unfalteringly. 

Minutes  passed,  but  still  the  man  could  not  believe  the 
testimony  of  his  eyes.  The  confession  was  too  unexpected, 
too  incredible.  Unconsciously  the  grip  of  his  hands 
tightened. 

"  Am  I  —  mad  ?  "  he  gasped.  "  You  care  for  me  —  you 
are  willing  to  go  —  because  you  love  me  ?  " 

Even  yet  the  girl  did  not  answer ;  but  no  human  being 
could  longer  question  the  expression  on  her  face.  Ben 
Blair  could  not  doubt  it,  and  the  reflection  of  love  glow 
ing  in  the  tear-wet  eyes  flashed  into  his  own.  The  past, 
with  all  that  it  had  held,  vanished  like  the  memory  of 
an  unpleasant  dream.  The  present,  the  vital  throbbing 
present,  alone  remained.  Suddenly  the  tense  arms  re 
laxed.  Another  second,  and  the  brown  head  was  upon 
his  shoulder. 

[  332  ] 


Love's  Surrender 

"Florence,""  he  cried  passionately,  "  Florence,  Florence  !  * 

He  could  say  no  more,  only  repeat  over  and  over  her 
dear  name. 

"  Ben,1'  sobbed  the  girl,  "  Ben  !  Ben  ! "  An  interrupt 
ing  memory  drew  her  to  him  closer  and  closer.  "I  loved 
you  all  the  time! — loved  you!  —  and  yet  I  so  nearly  — 
can  you  ever  forgive  me  ?  " 

Wondering  at  the  prolonged  silence,  Scotty  came  hesi 
tatingly  into  the  library,  peered  in  at  the  open  doorway, 
and  stood  transfixed. 


THE  END 


[  898  ] 


018907 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


